


Does It Kill, Does It Burn

by ricewine



Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fake Bromance?, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Future Fic, Hate Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-11-03 01:04:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 29,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10956465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricewine/pseuds/ricewine
Summary: Adam Levine fucking hates Blake Shelton. And not in a cute, fake way where they’ll hug in a couple minutes and everything will be okay. He fucking hates him, wants to smack that smug leer right off his face every time he sees it, instead of forcing a smile right back. But that's the job.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the future: it will eventually cover seasons 13 and 14. So, as you might infer, all contestants are OCs (while they do play some fairly important roles in terms of character motivation, they're not very important as characters so don't worry about seeing too many OCs). Also, this is an AU where both Blake and Adam are single because I'm very uncomfortable dealing with real actual romantic relationships in my very fictional fic.

Adam Levine fucking hates Blake Shelton.

And not in a cute, fake way where they’ll hug in a couple minutes and everything will be okay. He fucking hates him, wants to smack that smug leer right off his face every time he sees it, instead of forcing a smile right back. Blake Shelton is an asshole, a fucking asshole, and everything about him just fucking pisses Adam off.

It’s not that he doesn’t love doing The Voice. He’s worked with assholes before—he’s in the music industry. He doesn’t let it distract him from the job, from what he cares about. It’s just different with Blake, with all the pretending. Every time they go back in to shoot a new round of blinds, there’s a little bit of dread accompanying the excitement in his stomach, dread for the moments they’re going to have to manufacture convincingly enough to make people think this is _genuine_ , that they’re really the best of friends and not actually two dudes who kind of hate each other.

But still—it’s his job, he’s happy to do it, and there’s always a rush of adrenaline associated with the start of a new season, so he goes to the meeting with the producers and tries to pay attention. It’s all pretty standard—they’re not changing anything big this year. It’s nice to see everyone though—Miley, Carson, Mark. Jennifer, who he doesn’t know as well. He greets them all warmly, excitement for the season finally setting in. He nods at Blake shortly across the table. Blake maybe half-tilts his chin in response. Well fuck him too.  

The meeting feels like it goes on forever—it should not take as long as it does. Jennifer might be new but she did the UK version, after all. They do _not_ need to spend all this time going over minute details. Adam is just about jumping out of his skin by the time they’re finally dismissed and he’s halfway to the door when he hears Mark’s voice from behind him.

“Adam? Blake? Stay a second?”

Adam’s stomach sinks as he turns back towards the table. He accidentally meets Blake’s eyes as he sinks back down into his seat. Blake doesn’t look all too pleased either. They’re about to get a talking-to. It happens every season and Adam never gets used to it. He looks down at his hands as the room slowly clears, leaving only him, Blake, their respective managers, Mark, a handful of NBC reps and a couple young guys Adam knows are the show’s writers.

“What is it this time?” Blake grumbles once the door has closed.

Mark is the one to answer—it’s always best when Mark takes the lead in these conversations, everyone seemed to realize a couple years ago. Adam doesn’t like to hear this shit from anyone, but at least Mark is _someone_ , someone actually involved with them and the show, as opposed to some nameless network lackey with nothing to go on but ratings analyses.

“We just wanted to have a talk about our expectations for you guys this season,” he says smoothly. “You both know how important your relationship is to the show.” At least he didn’t say _bromance_ , Adam thinks.

“We appreciate how flexible you both have always been with us,” he continues carefully. Adam meets Jordan’s eyes—his manager shrugs a little. He knows how much Adam hates being handled, or at least being so obviously handled. Adam rolls his eyes and directs his attention back to Mark, who’s still speaking.

“That said, we have a few…adjustments in mind for this season.”

“What was wrong with last season?” Blake asks, sounding frankly as annoyed as Adam feels.

“There was feedback that some of the—uh—” one of the network reps has jumped in, a woman with curly red hair and black-framed glasses who looks like she doesn’t quite know how to phrase the rest of the sentence. “ _Physicality_ was missing from last season.”

Adam sighs.

“You really wanna tell us we have to be more _physical_?” Blake asks.

“Due respect, Mr. Shelton, in the past you’ve been—”

“I’ll start sitting on his lap again,” Adam interrupts, just wanting this meeting to be over. “Anything else?”

Blake shoots him a murderous look, but he ignores it. They weren’t going to be able to avoid it—he skipped the argument, that’s all.

“The tone of your recent interactions has been…lacking,” Mark says quietly.

“Tone?” Adam repeats. The way they beat around the bush in this meetings would almost be impressive if it weren’t so fucking obnoxious.

“Your attitude towards each other.”

Adam mulls this over for a second. “We’re being too mean?” he asks incredulously.

“Hold on now, we’ve never been _nice_ to each other,” Blake protests.

“It’s always been more…playful in the past,” Mark says uncomfortably. God. There is nobody in the room who wants to be having this conversation, is there?

“You can’t honestly expect—” Blake starts, but Adam cuts him off again.

“We’ll do better,” he says. “More smiles.”

Blake turns to glare at him again, but he can’t be bothered to care.

“Can we go now?” Adam asks.

“Let’s just talk briefly about off-screen interaction and then yes,” Mark says, and the way he looks at the NBC people makes Adam sure he’s cutting this meeting shorter than planned.

“Off-screen interaction?” Adam repeats dubiously. That doesn’t sound good. It was bad enough he had to let Blake speak at his fucking Hollywood Walk of Fame ceremony. What else are they going to ruin for him? What else could they possibly make him do?

“It always boosts ratings when you guys are seen out on the town together,” Mark says. “You’ve done it before.”

“And it was too much to ask then,” Adam grumbles, more to himself than anyone else.

“What about a couple extra joint interviews instead?” Blake’s manager cuts in. “Not just red-carpet press, sit-down stuff. Ellen. Late-night.”

Jordan looks at Adam, who sighs but nods. Apparently the adults are talking now. Anyway, that won’t be _too_ bad, compared to having to spend actual time with Blake, make conversation at a restaurant or bar until the paparazzi get a shot or two and they can go home.

“We’re fine with that on our end,” Jordan says.

“We’ll talk it over and work it into the revised contracts,” Mark says, looking straight at Adam like he knows how much Adam wants to get out of here. Which he probably does—Adam’s not exactly going to great lengths to hide it.

“Excellent,” Blake says, with about as much enthusiasm as a doctor delivering bad news. “We done?”

Mark nods and Blake stands even faster than Adam does. He’s out the door immediately and Adam can’t help the fresh surge of annoyance that wells up in his gut. He had dibs on the dramatic exit today. Fuck Blake Shelton.

Now his moment’s been ruined, he takes the time to talk to Jordan for a second—the new album still isn’t done and it feels like there are always details to go over. He keeps it quick—he’s been in this room too long, has too much pent-up energy and just wants to go home and take his dogs for a run.

But apparently God hates him, because even once he’s out of the room, the door’s barely closed behind him when Blake Shelton is popping out of nowhere and damn near giving him a heart attack.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he says. “A little warning.”

Blake smirks at him and he feels his pulse quicken. He hates that fucking smirk.

“What do you want, Shelton?” he asks, fighting to keep his voice level.

“Relax,” Blake says, and _god_ , that’s another thing he fucking hates, being told to relax. Nobody has ever found being told to relax the slightest bit relaxing. Sure enough, he feels his fists clench against his will.

Blake continues. “I just wanted to talk about that whole ‘playful’ thing.”

“What about it, man?” Adam asks. He feels tired, really, done talking about it, but it comes out aggressive, all sharp consonants and short vowels.

Blake rolls his eyes but appears unfazed. “Just that if you have a problem—”

“Fuck off, Shelton,” Adam interrupts. “I don’t need your advice. I can sell it. I’ve sold it for six years.”

And he has, that’s the weird thing. They both have. They’ve sold it for six years. If it were anyone else he’d be proud of the accomplishment, but in all this time it hasn’t gotten any easier. Blake is still the fucking worst.

“Well, if you were _sellin’_ it, there wouldn’t be a problem,” Blake says, and Adam wants so badly to punch him, right in his stupid smirking mouth. Of course it’s only ever _his_ fault if they’re not doing the job right, couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Blake and his asshole comments made without so much as a smile.

“I’ll consult my acting coach,” he snaps, unballing his fists before his stalks away. Looks like he gets a dramatic exit after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam doesn’t know why he lets Blake get to him so much. They’re barely started with Blinds—Miley has two artists, Blake and Jennifer one, Adam none—and the inside of his right cheek is already sore from biting it to keep the annoyance off his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next few chapters are pretty in the weeds re: the show, but it'll loosen up a little after that.

Adam doesn’t know why he lets Blake get to him so much. It didn’t used to be this hard, which doesn’t make sense really. He should be used to the smug obnoxious way Blake talks to the contestants, to the asshole comments he throws at the other coaches. It’s been six years, after all—it shouldn’t piss him off this much still. But somehow, the more he has to pretend to be amused by this behavior, to find it endearing, the more infuriating he finds it. They’re barely started with Blinds—Miley has two artists, Blake and Jennifer one, Adam none—and the inside of his right cheek is already sore from biting it to keep the annoyance off his face. Maybe the problem is that nobody’s really excited him that much yet. Nobody’s pulled his focus to the work he’s here to do. He’s feeling restless and twitchy and desperately in need of a break.

There’s someone singing now, just started, and Adam’s trying to focus on the rough alto. It sounds fine, no obvious problems he can sense, but a little too folky for his taste. And apparently everyone else’s too. The song winds down, they all make uncomfortable eye contact, but nobody presses their buttons. There must be some evidence of how uninvested he is on his face, because when their chairs swing around, nobody asks him for his opinion. They wish the girl well, send her off, and settle in to wait for the next artist.

Miley banters with Blake a little as they wait, and Adam is grateful he doesn’t have to do the same at the moment. Still, there’s a bromance quota for the day (not literally, but he tends to think of it that way), so he’s got to get over his current mood and start doing his fucking job.

The next voice is finally something to write home about—high and sweet but with a wallop Adam doesn’t really know if he could describe. He slams on his button immediately. She looks about twenty and she’s singing her heart out to an old Natalie Merchant song. And she’s going to be on Adam’s team—he’s certain of it. He hears the telltale button push next to him as Miley turns around but he doesn’t care. He’s getting this girl on his team. She brings the song to a close, and Adam claps furiously, jumping to his feet. He jumps in as soon as the audience shuts up, before Miley can say anything.

“What is your name?” he asks, still standing, the adrenaline keeping him up and moving.

“My name is Kyla, I’m nineteen, and I’m from San Diego,” she says all at once through her wide grin.

“Hi Kyla,” he says. “I need you on my team.”

There are times when you play the game, where you try to convince them using tricks or jokes or logic. And then there are times where you just have to be the most passionate one. This is one of those times.

“There’s something about your voice that just inspires me and makes me feel good. You’ve got this power, I don’t know how to describe it, and I know that’s what I’m supposed to do but I don’t think there are really words for...what you do. You’re incredible and we can win this thing. Please choose me.”

“Is Miley gonna get to talk?” Blake asks, cutting into Adam’s flow. He’s ready to keep talking, to talk all day if it’ll get Kyla on his team.

“No,” Adam says. “Kyla and I are having a moment right now.” He looks at her. “Kyla. Come on.”

Kyla laughs, but Blake presses on. “Kyla, do you wanna hear what Miley has to say?”

“Yes, please,” she says, smiling apologetically at Adam and looking over to Miley. Adam grabs his chest and collapses back into his chair as dramatically as he can.

Miley watches him, an amused smile on her face. “Are you done?” she asks him.

“Go ahead,” he says, gesturing towards her politely.

Miley starts talking calmly about tone and vibrato. Adam nods along vigorously, still trying to catch Kyla’s eye, keep her in his corner.

“You know,” Blake cuts in. “Your voice kinda reminds me of Miley’s.”

“Shut _up_ , Blake!” Adam calls down the row, drowning out Kyla’s thanks. “You didn’t even push your button. Stay out of this!”

The audience laughs—Adam feels emboldened.

“Is that really who you want for a coach?” Blake asks, smiling widely. “The guy with the anger problems yelling over there?”

Adam rolls his eyes. “Do you see what’s happening, Kyla?” he asks. “Country boy over there knows if I have you on my team, I’ll beat him this year. He’s trying to sabotage us.”

“Who do you pick as your coach, Kyla?” Jennifer cuts in.

“Um…”

Adam throws himself down across the platform of his seat, hitting his head on the button a little. He reaches out with his hands clasped together.

“I think I’m gonna go with Miley,” she says.

Adam lets his very real frustration turn into a joking reaction, gives her a hug after Miley, wishes her luck, and vows to steal her if he can. He turns on Blake as soon as she’s left the soundstage.

“You’re a menace,” he says, a smile plastered on his face. _Playful._

“I didn’t want her to throw her career away with one dumb decision,” Blake says.

Their chairs have turned back around, so Adam stands, walks over to Blake’s chair (that always makes the producers happy), and looks him dead in the eye.

“Blake,” he says. “You make me want to be a worse person.”

Blake laughs—that fake laugh of his that booms out over the entire studio, all grinning and eye contact. Adam reaches out and pushes Blake’s notebook to the floor. It's not nearly as satisfying as he pretends it is. The audience cheers as Adam heads back to his seat. He’s almost there too, almost home free, when he hears Blake’s voice behind him.

“Come on, buddy,” he says. Adam turns. Blake is standing, holding his arms out for a hug, and with the audience already whipped into a frenzy, there’s no way to avoid it. He takes a beat to shake his head and conjure up the most natural-looking smile he can before he begrudgingly walks the few paces back into Blake’s arms.

He’s always so warm, like a fucking furnace—an obnoxious country furnace who holds Adam way tighter than he needs to, for a little too long. Adam hides his face in Blake’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to maintain the fake smile, so he can seethe in peace. This fucking sucks. 

When Blake finally lets him go, he hightails it back to his seat.

“See, he can’t stay mad at me,” Blake says to the audience, meeting Adam’s eyes across the other coaches.

“Watch me,” Adam says back, then forces a laugh as he leans back in his chair.

Whoever said Adam Levine can’t act was fucking wrong.

 

The day goes on with the regular highs and lows. Adam picks up a couple artists he’s excited about. Blake wins a four-chair turn, Miley and Jennifer go head-to-head for the first time, which is a nice respite. It’s a perfectly fine day of shooting, but Blinds are always long and Adam only has so much sitting still in him. They’re finally in the home stretch—one more artist and he gets to go change, go home, be done for the day. Get high and go to bed. Or something more glamorous. But probably just get high and go to bed—there’s always an adjustment period when they start shooting again. His body seems to forget how draining the show is during the breaks, how draining taping is during Lives and vice versa, and he needs something extra to get him to sleep soundly. It’s frustrating, but it’s the kind of thing he’s tuned to now—his body is always a little bit slower to get used to things than the rest of him.

He hears the footsteps that indicate the last artist is here. He closes his eyes—last of the day. Usually they send a good one. The song starts up, Stevie Wonder, and Adam listens intently as the voice starts singing.

He _is_ good. Clear tone, even pitch. Power and a little bit of a rasp, but a sweet rasp. He’s very good. Jennifer hits her button, immediately followed by Blake. But something just doesn’t click for Adam. He’s not even sure what it is, he just doesn’t want to listen to this guy sing. It’s not interesting to him. Apparently Miley disagrees, because she hits her button too. Blake makes eye contact with him, gestures to push. Adam forces a little smile and shakes his head. Fuck Blake.

When the song ends and his chair turns, he keeps quiet, thinking if he just lets these three duke it out, it’ll end faster than if he gets involved. They’re ready to fight hard, clearly, from the way Blake introduces himself to 28 year-old James. All three are geared up for it. And Adam _sort of_ gets it—he’s a talented guy, he deserves a spot on the show, taste is just a personal thing. But still, there’s something about James—a vibe—that kind of grates. Musically and in the brief interaction he has with the coaches. Adam just doesn’t like the guy. First impressions can be wrong, sure, but he doesn’t see the appeal.

James chooses Blake, which shocks nobody. Part of Adam wishes he’d gotten in the game to dissuade him, just because he hates when Blake gets what he wants, it makes him even cockier and more obnoxious than usual. But at this point in the day, he’s happier to avoid interaction with Blake altogether. Blake and James do the song and dance of hugs and encouragement and _finally_ it’s time to go.

Adam’s out of his chair in a second but somehow Blake is already standing directly in his path to wardrobe, deep in conversation with Miley and entirely blocking Adam in. There’s no way around him, and he doesn’t respond when Adam tries to catch his attention, and fuck it, he’s been waiting to go home for fucking hours, so he finally just gives up and shoves him.

“Hey!” Blake exclaims.

“ _Playful_ enough for you, Shelton?” Adam asks under his breath as he passes through the small space Blake cleared. Blake glares at him as he walks out. Worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake stands, and Adam does his best to keep his face composed, to keep the fury inside him from showing through. He’s going to kill Blake Shelton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaand here we go

Adam eventually gets into the swing of things—Blinds go smoothly after that first day, rehearsals run nicely. He brings in Future as his adviser—anything to keep promoting the upcoming album. The first night of Battles shooting is upon them now, and Adam feels confident that his team will do great. He’s already sat through a couple rounds—Jennifer’s team and Blake’s—and his eyes and ears are open for a steal. Especially because Kyla’s up—she’s battling a fourteen year-old who Miley seems to favor, judging from Blinds. Adam disagrees, but this is his moment. His team is great, but not getting Kyla is this year’s biggest regret of the Blinds.

They’re up. The battle starts, and while Adam will admit it’s probably an even match technically, Kyla has total control of the audience, and Adam just loves her. He hopes—selfishly—that Miley doesn’t see it. He wants this steal. He needs this steal.

The song ends. Carson turns to Blake first.

“Poor Miley,” he says. “This is one of those awful battles where you’re both just so _good_. I think…” he trails off for a moment. “I think I’d have to go with Emily because she’s only fourteen and there’s so much potential for growth there.”

“Thank you, Blake,” Carson says. “Adam?”

Adam is ready. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, dumbass over there is right.” He pauses long enough for the audience to laugh and Carson to shake his head with a knowing smile. “This was definitely a well-matched battle. But Kyla, you are just so special, I love your voice so much. For me, it’s Kyla, hands down, no question.”

“Thank you, Adam. Coach Miley, to you.”

Adam doesn’t listen to what Miley says, first makes sure he’s got easy access to his button, then tries to make eye contact with Kyla, laying possible groundwork as best he can.

“Who’s the winner of this Battle?” Carson asks, and Adam promptly tunes back in.

“The winner of this Battle is…” and Adam can tell she already knows, can tell the dramatic pause is half-hearted at best.

“Emily,” Miley says, and it’s all Adam can do to keep from fist-pumping, from jumping out of his chair. He restrains himself, but his hand is already itching to press his button. As Emily gives Miley a hug and walks off, he’s damn near twitching, and Carson barely has time to say “coaches, I remind you, Kyla is—” when he’s slammed down on the button. Kyla lights up.

There’s a brief commotion from the crowd, but Carson eventually gets an opening to say “A steal from Adam Levine!”

But he’s barely finished the sentence when, down the row of chairs, Blake has slammed down on his button too, and shot a smug smile at Adam. Adam is furious. Blake is only doing this to get in his way, to piss him off. He doesn’t even want Kyla on his team.

“Two steals!” Carson says in that upbeat aggressive voice he has for the shows. Adam stands and flips Blake off, then turns to the stage and starts speaking before the crowd has even started to calm down.

“Kyla,” he says. “Kyla. Look at me. Don’t look at Blake, look at me.”

His best tack is going to be the fun coach maneuver—let his desperation shine through in a cute, lovable way. He’s good at that. Or at least, he thinks he’s good at that.

“Don’t you see what he’s doing?” he asks in his most overwrought voice. “He’s trying to come between us again. But Kyla, what we have is special. Blake doesn’t love you like I love you—he didn’t turn his chair for you. He didn’t even think you won this battle. I believe in you, Kyla. Join my team. Let’s win this thing together.” He holds his hands out to her, pleading silently.

“You are bein’ so creepy right now,” Blake says, staring across the chairs to Adam with that annoying look of faux-disbelief on his face.

Everyone laughs at that—the audience, Miley, Jennifer, Carson, Kyla.

“Kyla, I pressed my button for you because I think you’re too talented to go home, and I want to work with you,” Blake continues, and Adam hates the way he’s using his calm to counter Adam’s passion. “But now I just think you should choose me for your own safety.”

Adam goes to respond to him, but Carson cuts him off.

“Okay, Kyla, big decision here. Who do you pick as your new coach?”

“Adam, I want to thank you for always fighting so hard for me,” Kyla says, and Adam feels his stomach sinking. “But I think I’m gonna have to go with Blake.”

Blake stands, and Adam does his best to keep his face composed, to keep the fury inside him from showing through. He’s going to kill Blake Shelton.

He can barely focus on the rest of the night’s Battles, has to force himself to concentrate enough to make decisions about his own artists. He doesn’t know why Kyla has consistently rejected him as a coach, but he can’t find it in himself to direct so much as mild annoyance at her when Blake fucking Shelton keeps getting in his way. They’re going to have to have a talk about boundaries.

 

He corners Blake in his trailer after they’re done filming for the day. He knocks heavily, and when Blake answers, he looks annoyed.

“What do you want?” he asks, standing in the doorway.

“We need to talk,” Adam says, shoving his way inside, pushing Blake.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Blake says, and the biting sarcasm coming out in his mellow drawl is damn near sickening.

Adam’s had enough time dwelling on his anger to plan this speech to the word, so he launches in immediately. “What you did today was so fucking unprofessional. We’re here to do a job, and letting your personal vendetta against me get in the way of that is—”

“What I did _is_ the job,” Blake says calmly, collapsing onto the couch.

Adam glares at him, adding _interrupts angry speeches_ to his long mental list of Blake’s transgressions. “Bullshit,” he says, getting his composure back. “You don’t want to coach Kyla. You don’t give a shit about Kyla. You were just trying to piss me off.”

“You don’t know that,” Blake says idly, leaning back.

And _this_. This is fundamentally what Adam hates the most about Blake—the fact that he’s so goddamn unflappable. Adam is red in the face, all but full-on screaming at him, and Blake just looks like he’s watching a mildly interesting football game. Not even his own team’s game. Adam can’t stand people like that, people who refuse to engage. He crowds in closer to Blake, stands right in front of him, forcing eye contact.

“You’re just trying to fuck me over,” he says again.

“I’m tryin’ to win,” Blake says. “Just like always.”

Adam wants to scream. He’s wound tight light a coil and all he wants is a good fucking fight, something to get the anger out of his system so he can come back to work tomorrow and keep pretending. He takes another step forward, and Blake swallows hard. And God, Adam just needs a fucking reaction, something to grab onto, and before he knows it, he’s on the couch too, straddling Blake and shoving his tongue down his throat.

It dully registers in the back of his mind that he’s kissing Blake Shelton and that this has got to be the stupidest mistake he’s ever made in his fucking life. But before that thought has time to swim to the surface of his brain, to influence his actions and maybe get him off of Blake, he gets the reaction he was looking for. Suddenly, Blake’s hand is rough in his hair and he’s biting Adam’s lower lip. Ow. The pain barely has time to register when Blake’s free hand has grabbed his hip, hard, and his tongue has beaten out Adam’s for control with hardly any fight. _Fuck_ , that’s…Adam’s getting hard, he’s getting really fucking hard, and when Blake pulls his head back by the hair and moves his mouth to Adam’s neck, Adam’s hips buck and he finds he’s not the only one.

This is ridiculous. He came in here to yell. He came in here _angry_. But as Blake bites down at the meeting of his neck and shoulder, he realizes that he came in here to get out his aggression. It seems like Blake is doing much the same. Adam grinds down against Blake’s erection, and Blake gasps into his skin. Before he knows it, he’s on his back, rotated ninety degrees on the couch, and Blake is on top of him.

Adam squirms—he doesn’t love losing the advantage, wants to keep the situation in _his_ control, but then Blake kisses him again, hard and dirty, his beard scraping against Adam’s cheeks, and he can’t help it—he fucking _moans_. And he can feel Blake’s smug grin against his own lips, so he fights back, cants his hips up so Blake jerks back.

It’s a competition, and If there’s one thing Adam and Blake can do together, it’s compete. Adam fumbles with Blake’s zipper, twisting his wrist awkwardly to get the right angle, while Blake tugs Adam’s t-shirt up and over his head, then applies himself to sucking and biting down the sensitive skin of Adam’s chest. Adam stifles a yelp when Blake bites down on his left nipple, and focuses on the task at hand. He grips Blake’s cock through his boxers--eliciting a soft gasp—before he slips his fingers below the waistband.

It kind of pisses him off how big Blake is—long and thick. But Adam has never shied away from a challenge, so he adjusts his grip and gives a few lazy strokes. His wrist fucking hurts at this angle, but he’s not quite sure how he’d adjust even if he didn’t have Blake’s weight pinning him down, so he grits his teeth and plays through, finding a rhythm, then switching it up, smirking at Blake’s reactions.

“Jesus, Adam,” he says, followed by a sharp intake of breath. It’s a heady feeling—watching his actions have such an _effect_ on Blake, for fucking once, and it gives him an idea.

He pushes at Blake’s chest and pulls away a little, meeting Blake’s confused eyes.

“Sit up,” Adam says.

Blake does so immediately, scrambling to get off of Adam. Adam watches—the look on Blake’s face is so…lacking its typical smugness, and there’s no reason for that to turn Adam on, but holy shit does it turn Adam on.

He gets off the couch and sinks down to his knees in front of Blake. Blake’s face changes again, and the look is almost enough—taken over by want. He looks overwhelmed, and Adam’s internal monologue is sounding dangerously close to an evil laugh and he closes in and takes Blake’s cock in his mouth.

He works slowly, digging his fingers into Blake’s thighs as he takes in his every reaction—sharp gasp of breath, low moan that comes out despite obvious attempts to stifle it. Frantic fingers tight in his hair make him pick up his pace—a little. Blake can fucking wait. And he is getting frustrated, Adam can tell. He smiles around Blake’s cock—if he had known this was the way to get under Blake’s skin, he would have done it years ago.

Adam slows his motions again, and Blake groans.

“You fucking—” he cuts off, and his hands are suddenly under Adam’s arms, pulling him back up to straddle him. Adam acquiesces, leaning in when Blake kisses him hard. But he’s barely up when Blake’s pushing him back off, gesturing wildly towards the desk in the corner and saying “top drawer.”

Adam sighs, but follows Blake’s vague handwaves and opens the top drawer on the right-hand side of the desk. In it, along with some tangled up pairs of headphones, is a mess of condoms and a bottle of lube. Adam has so many questions, ranging from _why does Blake have lube and condoms in his trailer?_ to _oh shit, we’re really doing this, aren’t we?_ but instead of asking them, he just retrieves the items and unzips his pants, awkwardly kicking them off as he makes his way back to Blake.

Blake grabs the lube and pulls Adam back onto his lap, kissing him hungrily. Adam kind of loses himself in the kiss, the way Blake is claiming the inside of his mouth, the annoyingly hot taste of Blake’s tongue. He barely notices Blake fumbling with the lube until there’s a hand in his underwear, a slick and cold finger pressing against his entrance.

Adam can’t bite back the slight hiss as Blake sinks his finger into him—those monstrous fucking hands aren’t particularly merciful and it’s a lot all at once, all long and think. Adam really tries to keep his poker face, to not give Blake the satisfaction of knowing how good it feels, but _God_ , Blake is working him open just right and when he adds a second finger Adam can’t help but moan.

Blake grins his arrogant smug grin at that, meeting Adam’s eyes as he curls his fingers.

“Fuck you,” Adam says, but it comes out breathy and the effect is probably ruined by the way he grinds down onto Blake’s fingers.

“Be patient,” Blake responds, and Adam fucking hates him, wants to punch him in the face right now. But there’s probably an easier way to wipe that look off his face, so Adam takes a moment to withdraw and pull off his boxer briefs, then focuses on the task at hand, fucking himself down onto Blake’s fingers until he adds a third. Adam reaches for the condom, tears it open. He tries to focus enough to put it on Blake himself, but Blake curls his fingers just so, and he has to give up.

Blake withdraws his hand, finishes putting the condom on, and guides Adam onto him by the hips.

Adam was right—he eases down onto Blake’s cock slowly, and he sees the smug grin disappear from Blake’s face like a stop-motion picture, replaced by a hotter, more desperate look. He’s barely bottomed out when he’s grabbed Adam’s hips and pulled him up, then back down, setting a punishing rhythm that makes Adam yelp.

“Not gonna last long,” Blake grunts, and Adam wants to smirk at that, wants to store it away for further mockery, but _God_ , that angle is so right, and there’s nothing he can do but moan, especially when Blake wraps a hand around his cock and starts jerking him off, stroked timed to thrust so Adam is basically jelly by the time Blake whispers “gonna come” and his rhythms stutter, then pick up, faster than before.

Adam focuses on his own sensation, fucking up into Blake’s hand and down onto Blake’s cock until everything explodes around him and he comes all over Blake’s hand.

Blake grabs his hips roughly, thrusts once, twice, and is gone.

After a few seconds, Adam climbs off him, boneless and messy. They sit side by side on the couch, catching their breath in silence, and then Adam stands and begins to gather his clothes and pull them on.

He doesn’t really know what to say—this is so not what he expected when he came in here. He _was_ looking for a release, for an outlet for his anger. Which he guesses he found. He’s still pissed about Kyla, but he can move past it now, do his job, work with his team. Coping mechanisms and all that.

He’s standing, fully dressed, by the door, and Blake is looking at him expectantly. He looks like an idiot—his flannel still on, his jeans and boxers down around his thighs. Adam smirks a little. He wants to make a joke out of that, but that feels weird, out-of-bounds somehow, so he goes with his gut.

“I’m still gonna kick your ass this season, Shelton,” he says, and leaves before Blake has time to so much as smirk back at him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam is kind of going out of his mind. The problem is that he doesn’t know how to contextualize this. It was one thing when it was, well, one thing. He thought they’d had an unspoken agreement—don’t talk about it, it never happened.

They don’t mention it. Obviously they don’t mention it—of all the things they don’t talk about, why would they cheat with this of all topics? Adam’s not going to pretend that he’s not still pissed off about Blake stealing Kyla, but the rage has passed. The rage has passed and he can focus again, throw himself into the rest of the battle rounds, paring his team down to the very best, picking up a couple great artists from Jennifer’s team and Miley’s. He really does love just doing the show, coaching his team, watching these singers grow and thrive. Blake notwithstanding, he’s having an excellent season so far. And even dealing with Blake isn’t _that_ hard this season. Because, well. They don’t mention it. Things proceed as usual. They keep up the banter, they do their jobs and do them well. It’s shaping up to be a great season as they head into Knockouts, and Adam is feeling confident about his team and his chances of winning.

First night of Knockouts confirms what he’s feeling—there’s something in the air, some weird and almost tangible discomfort or nervousness, and everyone’s a little off their game except Adam’s first pair. One of Miley’s artists is pitchy and goes home. Neither of Jennifer’s first artists connected with their songs at all. Adam’s honestly getting worried about his last steal—he hasn’t even considered pressing his button yet. What if all the rounds are this rough?

It’s getting towards the end of the night now—things have sort of settled down, into the swing of it all.  His team’s done great—Miley stole his last losing artist, at least. But other rounds have still been unimpressive, and Adam is looking forward to a good bout when Blake’s next pairing is announced. James is going up against one of Blake’s little pop girls, and Adam doesn’t totally understand the pairing choice, but they’re both talented enough, even though Adam doesn’t really care for either. Still, he’d rather watch talented people do something he’s not particularly into than the rest of tonight’s rounds.

But apparently, tonight is weird on more than one level, because from the start, James is…Adam doesn’t want to say _bad_ , but he’s feeling a little vindicated for not turning around. The guy is seriously underperforming. It’s sad—much as Adam is biased against him, even he knows James is better than this.

He shoots a glance down the row of chairs at Blake, who’s chewing on his lower lip. He doesn’t look pleased, and petty as it may be, that fills Adam with a kind of warm giddiness. He should really try to be a better person.

But the round is over and Carson’s already gotten to Blake, and the schadenfreude is calling so what the hell, he’ll try to be a better person tomorrow.

“This is really tough,” Blake says slowly. He does everything slowly. “James, you’re so much better than you were tonight. And I don’t know if it was nerves or…whatever, but that makes my job really hard tonight.”

Adam tries to keep his face neutral as Blake goes on to talk to Claire. It’s not common for Blake to be that outwardly negative about a contestant. He must be really pissed that he has to send James home. Because obviously that’s what he’s going to do. Much as James could go on to do well, there’s no way Blake can fairly keep him around after a performance like that.

Adam tries to ignore the excited idea that seems to be growing in his stomach. He’s not really _that_ petty, is he? He shouldn’t be. He’s an adult man. He’s got a job to do—a job he takes seriously and believes in and wouldn’t sacrifice the integrity of. Right?

“Blake, who’s the winner of this Knockout?”

“The winner of this Knockout is Claire.”

Adam claps with the rest of the coaches, with the audience. _Just smile_ , he tells himself as Carson talks to James. _You’re better than this._

He presses his button.

He can _feel_ Blake’s anger—immediately, from all the way down the row. He refuses to look—if he’s going to do it, he might as well go all out with it. Also, he has to come up with a plausible reason that he—who didn’t even turn around for the guy in the first place—would use his last steal on James after a performance like that.

“You know, man,” he starts, stalling for time. He decides to go generic. “You just have so much potential. There was just this little voice in my head—your voice, actually.” He pauses for laughter. “Just saying ‘James can’t go home.’ So welcome to Team Adam, man.”

James is thanking him and he stands up for the traditional hug, wondering what the hell he just got himself into and steadily avoiding Blake’s gaze.

 

They’re on a break, and Adam is in his trailer digging around the fridge for the sesame noodles he could have _sworn_ he didn’t finish yet when the door swings open loudly.

Blake is up in his space immediately, door slamming shut behind him.

“Real fucking mature, Levine,” he says, leaning in close. He’s fuming and Adam would be lying if he said he didn’t think it was kind of hilarious.

“I’m just trying to win,” Adam says, unable to keep the smirk off his face. “That’s the job.”

“Shut the hell up,” Blake says, hands suddenly gripping hard on Adam’s upper arms.

Adam doesn’t have time to fire back before Blake’s lips are coming down on his and Blake is pushing him backwards. The fridge door closes and Adam moves back, joining in the effort to get to the couch. They only have a few minutes and if they’re going to do this again—which is frankly unexpected and complicated in a way that’s already poking at the back of Adam’s mind—they’ve got to do it fast. And the aggressive movement of Blake’s hands down his body says that yes, they’re going to do it again. Things are getting fucking weird.

 

They don’t speak for the rest of Knockouts. Under normal circumstances, that would be fine by Adam, but it’s tense in a new way and he’s kind of going out of his mind. The problem is that he doesn’t know how to contextualize this. It was one thing when it was, well, one thing. He thought they’d had an unspoken agreement—don’t talk about it, it never happened. But if Blake had adhered to that, there would have been no further contact, no other engagement. And Adam doesn’t know exactly what to call what happened in his trailer, but it certainly involved both contact and engagement.

Adam’s all tangled up in knots, and the break in shooting does nothing to untie them. If anything, the months he spends finishing the album and trying to convince his bandmates that he’s fine only manage to stress him out all the more. He’s not okay with this—this not knowing. Blake could do fucking _anything_ next—fuck him again, use this to blackmail him, go to the press and tank both their careers. It’s too much power for someone to have over him, especially Blake. So he’s pretty fucking stressed.

By the night of the first live show, Adam is a nervous wreck. Live shows always come with adrenaline rushes (something about the cameras and the way he has to like...give his opinions makes it different than something normal like a concert), but this is something else.

The weird thing is, it fuels him. He can’t eat, he can’t find it in him to even try to be social or charming when they’re not live, but he doesn’t think he’s every been a better coach in his life. All the nervous energy coursing through him needs to go somewhere, and he’s currently confined to his chair, so he ends up hyperfocused on each performance and brimming with insight. He’s on fire. Fuck you, Blake Shelton.

The problem—that he really should have seen coming, he knows himself well enough by now—is that the second they’re off the air, it hits him like a blow to the chest. Every bit of energy is gone from him in a second, and the comedown from adrenaline is always worse than any drug he’s ever taken. Everything around him goes foggy—he knows there’s somewhere he should be, he’s vaguely aware of the motion around him, but he’s frozen to his chair. He feels pinned down by his own weight, suddenly wants to curl up and sleep, but can’t move enough to even drag himself to the couch in his trailer. Through the fuzziness in his head, he half-decides that staying put is a good idea—he’ll figure out what to do when the room is less packed, when there’s nobody watching him anymore.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed or how many people he’s half-consciously shooed away when the room is finally quiet, cleared except for the indifferent technical crew clearing up the stage, and he feels like he can try to be a person again. He’s still feeling shaky as he plants his feet firmly on the floor and experiments with putting weight on them.

He’s in the process of standing up when he hears someone approaching from behind him.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Of course it’s Blake—who could be a worse person to have to deal with right now? Nobody. Of course it’s fucking Blake.

“Fuck off, Shelton.” Adam closes his eyes and wills Blake to go away, to leave him with the quiet crew to figure his shit out on his own. But when has he ever been that lucky?

“You okay?” Blake asks. Adam opens his eyes—Blake is leaning over him looking begrudgingly concerned.

“I’m fine,” Adam snaps.

“You don’t look fine.”

“Thanks.”

“You look like you’re about ten seconds from fainting,” Blake says, no apology in his voice.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Adam insists, taking a step forward to prove it. His foot slides a little underneath him. He catches himself, everything’s fine, but Blake looks far from convinced.

“How are you supposed to get home?” Blake asks, eyeing Adam’s feet as though they’re armed bombs.

“My car,” Adam says. He suddenly feels very fragile under Blake’s scrutiny. And that’s bullshit. He’s just crashing, it’s happened to him about a million times. He knows he’s fine. He just needs some rest. But he can feel Blake’s mood shifting from concerned to annoyed to resolved, and he doesn’t have much of a fight in him right now.

“Come on, I’m drivin’,” Blake says, exhaling heavily and offering a shoulder.

“What? No,” Adam protests weakly, pushing away from Blake and his shoulder that would frankly be too high up to help him walk even if he _did_ need it.

“I don’t want your death by car wreck on my conscience,” Blake says.

“You don’t drive in the city,” Adam reminds him. He’s so tired, but the last thing he needs right now is more time with Blake. If it weren’t for Blake, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

“Give me your keys,” Blake says, ignoring Adam’s protest.

Adam has one more argument. “You’re drunk,” he says. It’s possible—he doesn’t know exactly how much alcohol Blake consumes over the course of a live show. Could be enough to really get him drunk.

Blake rolls his eyes and holds his hand out for the keys. Adam sighs and hands them over.

 

They ride in silence—Adam considered pretending to sleep, but he’s still bitter that Blake insisted on this, and doesn’t want to validate it by acting more out of it than he is to begin with. So instead he just sits there stewing, the anxiety slowly churning its way back to life in his stomach. By the time they finally make it to his place, he’s worked up again, enough that he probably won’t sleep tonight. He doesn’t show that to Blake though, just climbs out of the car and looks at Blake expectantly.

“You gonna call a car or something?” he asks.

Blake raises an eyebrow. “I appreciate the hospitality,” he says, smirking.

Something turns in Adam’s stomach, but he ignores it. “What, am I supposed to invite you in for cocoa and board games?” he asks sarcastically.

“Or somethin’ else,” Blake says, and his smile twitches a little at the corners.

It takes Adam a moment to process what Blake’s said.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks once he understands.

“It seems like you’ve got somethin’ to work out,” Blake says, shrugging. “I’m stuck here. Whatever.” He gestures vaguely between the two of them.

This has got to be the most surreal experience of Adam’s life. He’s standing in his driveway, being propositioned by Blake Shelton in the dim light shining out of the car (Blake still hasn’t closed his fucking door). He wants to laugh, to tell Blake to fuck off. It’s ludicrous. It’s beyond ludicrous. But…well. He _does_ have something to work out—the anxiety pooled in his belly. He won’t fall asleep anytime soon. And it’s not like he hasn’t _enjoyed_ …well. There’s a lot to consider. And even in the darkness, he can see Blake’s blue blue eyes looking at him and well, if it’s just a release, just something physical, a way to get out all this stress, that can’t be too bad, right?

“I still hate you,” Adam says.

“Do I sound like I’m confessin’ my love over here?” Blake asks, snorting.

As long as that’s cleared up.

“Fine,” Adam says, finally walking to the front door, gesturing for Blake to follow. “Whatever.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It becomes something they do. Adam doesn’t know how it happened, but here they are, lying in his bed, slick with sweat and breathing heavily and not talking because really, why ruin the moment by engaging with each other?

It becomes something they do. Adam doesn’t know how it happened, but here they are, lying in his bed, slick with sweat and breathing heavily and not talking because really, why ruin the moment by engaging with each other? And otherwise, it’s honestly a pretty nice moment. By now, Adam’s had sex with Blake Shelton enough times that the shame is gone. Either that or the shame is so deep and all-encompassing that it’s permeated his consciousness and he is so regularly surrounded by it that he doesn’t even notice anymore. It’s probably that one.

Whatever. It’s just stress relief, just physical release. It eases the tension—just like his yoga. And yoga is nothing to be ashamed of, right?

Okay so it’s not like yoga. Yoga is restorative and healthy. It’s more like playing drums. Loud, violent, powerful, dangerous. Alive, energetic, thrumming, vibrant, go go go. End up beat and covered in sweat but a hell of a lot calmer. Yeah, it’s just like drums.

It’s good to think of it that way. To keep up a kind of wall. Because he’s fucking Blake Shelton, whom he _hates_ , and that’s some weird shit, and if he viewed it as anything other than well, drumming, he’d probably have to get a therapist involved. So, drums.

At least they don’t pretend it’s something it’s not. At least they don’t like, cuddle. They finish their business and leave it at that, and when it’s at Blake’s place, Adam leaves immediately, and when it’s at Adam’s place like now, Blake leaves as soon as he wakes up, because it turns out Blake is the husband in every sitcom and he passes out the minute they’ve disentangled themselves.

And Adam definitely does not wake up half an hour later, too warm from being pressed into Blake’s side. He definitely doesn’t feel a little cold and wrong retreating back to his own side of the bed. That absolutely never happens—you don’t spoon your drum kit after you play it.

 

They’re down to the top eight now. It’s performance night, and Adam’s riding a high. He has three artists still in it, each performance topping the last, and he’s sure they’ll all go on. The biggest surprise of the last few weeks has been James. Every performance has just gotten better and better. And the guy is _coachable_. Adam still doesn’t love him—there’s just a vibe, for some reason or another, they don’t gel—but he has to admit, he couldn’t ask for a better contestant.

He’s just blown the roof off the place, and Carson’s gone straight to Adam for his comments. And Adam, for once, knows exactly what to say.

“James, man, you know what you just did. You don’t need to hear it from me. So instead of saying it…I have a question for Blake.”

Carson raises his eyebrows, but it’s a live show, and Adam just started something that now he gets to finish. He stands and turns towards Blake, meeting his eyes.

“How does it feel to have screwed up so badly, dude?” he asks. The crowd laughs and applauds. “How does it feel?” Adam asks again, and if it weren’t for the FCC there would have absolutely been a nice expletive in there.

But the way Blake smiles at him, tight around the eyes and shaking his head, makes it obvious that even without the swear, Blake got the message. And he can almost _feel_ Blake’s hands clasped tight around his wrists, like he knows they will be later. His stomach twists in anticipation. And no, that’s not why he did this. But still, he thinks as he sits back down and Carson takes them to commercial, it’s kind of thrilling. They’re better than ever this season, he thinks, and this is why. He pushes Blake’s buttons, Blake pushes his, and then off-camera they push each other’s. It’s working.

 

“Momma, I don’t think that’s right.”

Adam looks up from the couch as his front door slams. Blake is holding his phone up to his ear and talking, apparently to his mother. Adam raises his eyebrows, meets his eyes pointedly like _really? Are you kidding me, man? You realize this isn’t your house?_

Blake waves a distracted hand at him and turns away. Adam sighs and flops backward on the couch. He’s not _trying_ to listen, but Blake isn’t trying to be quiet either.

“Well, what did he say? Did he tell you—all right.”

Adam sighs. How’s he supposed to fuck Blake after hearing him talk to his mother? His voice sounds a few pitches higher and he’s somehow holding himself differently, and this is not what Adam signed on for.

“Yeah, okay,” Blake is saying. “Call me when you hear.” A pause. “Love you.”

This is _so_ not what Adam signed on for.

Adam is glaring when Blake turns around, but when Blake meets him with an equally evil eye, he’s a little taken off-guard.

“It was too hot to stay and talk outside,” Blake says, and the fierceness with which he says it makes Adam dial his annoyance back a little.

“Okay,” he says.

Blake looks away, looks…emotional.

Red alert. There are sirens ringing in Adam’s head, warning bells, _don’t do it don’t fucking do it_ , but still, he can’t help himself when he asks.

“Are you okay?”

Blake twitches a little, but doesn’t look at him. “My mom’s sick,” he says.

Adam was not expecting that. And he has no response. Why the fuck is Blake telling him this? _You asked_ , pings a little voice in the back of his head. Still though. Blake shouldn’t just tell him. Blake hates him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Is she…” he doesn’t know what he was planning on asking, could think of about a hundred questions, but doesn’t think he should be the person to ask any of them. Also, doesn’t really want to know. Trailing off somehow seems worse, but he has nothing to say.

“I don’t know,” Blake says, finally looking back up at Adam, looking right through him like he can see everything that Adam is thinking. His eyes narrow. “You know, I think I’m just gonna go.”

“Okay,” Adam says. This is a weird fucking moment. Is there something he should be doing? No, right? You don’t have to comfort your drum kit. When its drum kit mother is sick. The analogy breaks down a little, fine, but either way, Adam’s fairly convinced he doesn’t have any specific role here.

Blake walks back to the door, and Adam watches him go, still at a loss for words. And fine, maybe there’s nothing he should be saying. But he shouldn’t be saying nothing. And much as Blake pisses him the fuck off, this isn’t what he wants the breaking point to be. He’s not trying to make Blake feel bad about his mom.

“I’ll see you later,” Blake says, and it doesn’t sound all that different than usual. When he closes the door behind him, the mat inside catches in it, like always, and like always, Blake doesn’t fix it.

 

It’s the weekend before the finale and Adam has coached the shit out of his contestants, resulting in both James and Rochelle making it in. He can’t stop thinking about that—reveling in it, even.

“Hey, remember how I have two contestants in and you only have one?” he asks, for the second time. Or maybe it’s the eighth. He’s not sure, it’s all blending together in a haze of smoke.

“I do remember,” Blake’s voice comes through the haze. “Remember how Kyla’s on _my_ team?”

“Whatever, dude,” Adam says, letting his swimming head take over for his mouth, letting the sensation of swimming radiate down his whole body.

“Wait,” he says, sitting up again. “We should get chips.”

“I have chips,” Blake says.

“You keep chips in the house?”

Blake ignores the question and walks slowly towards his kitchen. At least, Adam thinks he’s walking slowly. He can’t tell if he’s underwater or if Blake’s underwater or if they’re both underwater. But if Blake is underwater, that’s a good thing, probably. He’s been stressing about his mom so much. At least, Adam thinks he has—they haven’t talked about it since, and that’s better, but Blake’s been. Different. In little ways. Little subtle ways that Adam wishes he weren’t tuned in enough to pick up on. But he is. It’s the set of Blake’s shoulders when he sits in his coach’s chair, the bags under his eyes, the kinds of jokes he makes when the cameras are rolling.

And things have changed between them too. Not in any measurable way—at least, Adam doesn’t think so. It’s not like they suddenly care about each other, whisper sweet nothings and fall asleep cuddling. There’s a little less vitriol than usual, but it doesn’t come from changing feelings or anything. Mostly, Blake just seems distracted, too distracted to pick on Adam. When he tunes in enough to fuck him, it’s not particularly different. Adam mostly just lets it happen—he’s not _softening_ towards Blake, but you don’t kick a man when he’s down. That’s just common decency. And Blake is certainly down. 

Anyway, a break can’t hurt anything. A little weed on a muggy day, take the edge off. Blake seems genuinely calm today. Whatever.

Adam realizes he’s still got the piece in his hand and takes a hit.

Blake comes back, a bag of potato chips in one hand. He offers them to Adam, who takes a handful and shoves the pipe towards Blake.

“Thanks,” Blake says, taking it, along with the lighter.

Adam leans back on the couch and eats his chips methodically, one by one. He tries to count how many he has, just for fun, but he kind of forgets what numbers are somewhere around seven, and just laughs at himself instead.

“What’s funny?” Blake’s voice sounds lazy, and it’s hot as all hell.

“I don’t know how to count,” Adam says.

“What?”

Adam shrugs. He’s not sure he could explain now, not sure he remembers what he meant by whatever he just said anyway. He thinks he probably _is_ underwater. He’s okay with that. He knows how to swim. He laughs again.

“You know what?” Blake asks.

“Hmm?” Adam replies, preoccupied with the last of his chips. Those went fast. Maybe he only did have seven. That’s what he was counting. Maybe he _does_ know how to count. Well, too late now.

“You’re a lot less annoying when we’re high.”

Adam considers this for a moment, licking crumbs off his fingers. “You know, you are too,” he says, surprised to discover it’s true.

Blake smiles at him, and it looks sincere. That’s certainly enough of that. He stands, crosses to the armchair where Blake is sitting, and straddles him.

“Now, are you gonna fuck me, or did we smoke this for nothing?” he asks, rocking forward.

Blake groans. He’s already hard, Adam can feel it. He rocks forward again then leans in and bites down on Blake’s lower lip.

“I was kiddin’,” Blake breathes. “Still annoying.”

But it comes out all high and weird, and Adam can’t help but grin.

“Never stopped you before,” he says, thrusting his hips again.

Blake groans and kisses him, and they’re off, slow and high and hard, again and again and again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s automatic, the way Adam snaps back when Blake pulls—he’s like a fucking rubber band. And sometimes he can’t tell if he hates himself for it, if he makes it too easy for Blake to get a rise out of him. Lately, it hasn’t been going too badly for him. For either of them. But part of him wonders—at some point, they’re going to stop doing this.

“The winner of The Voice is…”

Adam’s white-knuckling it and he doesn’t know if he’s breathing. He hates this part—the artificial build-up to the announcement. Carson has the answer, and now it’s just…what? Keeping viewers on the edge of their seats? It’s the most annoying, Hollywood shit. James and Kyla are standing there, faces tight, hands clasped, and Adam is resolutely not looking at Blake. And he kind of hates himself for being so petty—hasn’t he been rooting for Kyla since the beginning? And hasn’t he been more or less ambivalent to James? But no, he wants this, wants to beat Blake so badly he can fucking taste it, wants it more than he ever has before. James _has_ to win.

“James McKnight, congratulations!” Carson shouts, and Adam is up out of his chair, cheering so loud he can’t even believe it’s him doing it. But it is—he’s definitely the one running up onstage, tackling James in a bear hug that seems to surprise him, and holding his arm up in the air like a champion.

James is crying as his family descends on him. His song is coming out fragmented and emotional, and the stage is a swarm of people. Adam is hugging everyone, he doesn’t even know who’s who anymore, he’s just letting himself be passed around, riding the high of it all. Until. Suddenly he’s face-to-face with Blake Shelton. They look at each other for a moment—the wide smile on Blake’s face only looks about 60% fake, Adam notes with surprise—before Blake scoops him off his feet into a hug.

“Made it through another, huh?” Adam says into Blake’s ear. “We didn’t kill each other. Mark’ll be pleased.”

Blake doesn’t answer, but he does tighten his grip so Adam’s ribs make a little noise.

“Ow,” Adam snaps.

“I’ve done worse,” Blake mutters, dropping Adam suddenly and turning away.

Adam takes a deep breath. Fuck Blake. They still have a red carpet to walk, press to entertain, and Blake’s trying to…whatever. This is Adam’s fucking night, he’s not going to let Blake Shelton ruin it. In any way.

 

“Adam, how proud are you?”

Adam almost rolls his eyes, but catches himself just in time.

“I’m always proud,” he says to the blonde reporter who asked. “I don’t know how to like, scale it for you. Like, I am seven proud.”

She laughs.

“But yeah, I’m…James came such a long way. Of course I’m proud. You know, he put a lot of work in and really earned this. And it’s especially impressive because he had to move past some…really just, extraordinarily bad coaching in his first few weeks.”

He can’t help himself from throwing that last part in—it’s just the kind of footage America loves, and if it will get Blake all riled up…even before that started paying off for him in other exciting ways, it was worth it, pissing off Blake.

And Blake is only a few feet away, turns when he says it.

“Really?” he asks, a glint in his eye. “I saw two people I’d coached in the top two tonight. You didn’t ever coach Kyla, did you, Adam?”

And the reporter—Adam kind of hates calling her that, but whatever—laughs again and asks Adam another question, and it’s all well and good for her, but Adam answers on autopilot. His mind is on the clouded look in Blake’s eyes and exactly what could be coming to him tonight for having the audacity to win.

 

Of course, there’s still press and then there’s the after party and then, and then, and then…Adam loves the excitement of a win, loves being the center of attention, but by the time he finally gets home, he’s ready to be alone with the buzz. It’s late. Blake’s probably passed out somewhere, and if Adam cares, he damn sure isn’t about to get in touch with that emotion. So he turns on some soft music, sprawls out on the couch with the dogs, and takes some deep breaths, trying to calm the effects of adrenaline, alcohol, and victory.

It’s not particularly easy—he’s still wired, doesn’t think he’ll be calm ever again, honestly. He considers going for a run, but it’s 2 AM and he’s not really sober and that doesn’t seem like the safest or best decision. He’s just about resolved that the only thing to do with this energy is go upstairs and jerk off when there’s a loud knock on his front door that just about scares him to death.

He walks to the door slowly, a little apprehensive, but then he sees through the window that it’s Blake and while only Blake fucking Shelton is annoying enough to show up unannounced at 2 AM, at least Adam won’t have to jack off now.

He opens the door, and Blake is kissing him, sloppy and aggressive, pushing him backwards inside. He tastes like liquor, like, a lot like liquor, like he’s been drinking more than usual. Which in Blake’s case means way too fucking much.

Blake has him pressed up against his kitchen island, and it’s not exactly unpleasant, but at the moment, it’s all a little much, and he pushes Blake off.

“Jesus, I’m getting secondhand drunk here,” he says. “What gutter did you crawl out of?”

Blake rolls his eyes. “I didn’t realize you were my mother,” he says, an angry edge to his voice. So it’s going to be like this tonight.

“Relax, man,” Adam says. “I was just trying to make a joke.”

“You’re not very funny,” Blake says back, quickly.

“My humor’s just too advanced for you.” It’s automatic, the way Adam snaps back when Blake pulls—he’s like a fucking rubber band. And sometimes he can’t tell if he hates himself for it, if he makes it too easy for Blake to get a rise out of him. Lately, it hasn’t been going too badly for him. For either of them. But part of him wonders—at some point, they’re going to stop doing this. One of them will start dating someone, or hell, the season just ended. They’ve got a week before they start taping again, but when that’s done…Blake’s off to Oklahoma, or to go on tour, whatever the fuck it is that Blake Shelton does. And that’s that. And it’s better that way. But in the meantime, Adam is just giving Blake more ammunition, letting him learn more and more what makes Adam tick. He’s making it too easy.

“Hey, you know what, man?” Blake half-slurs, and Adam actually almost smiles, because probably he doesn’t have to worry this much. It’s just Blake.

“Screw you,” Blake continues. “You weren’t supposed to win like that.”

“Like what?” Adam asks, fighting back a smirk and crossing the room to pour himself a shot of tequila. If Blake’s going to be drunk, so can he. Or at least he can get started again.

“You know. You only had James on your team to be petty.”

Adam lets the smirk out. “Now, I wonder where I learned that,” he says.

“Shut up,” Blake snaps. “You didn’t even like him.”

Adam shrugs and tosses back his shot. Blake glares at him before crossing the room and pulling him into a rough kiss. This time Adam leans into it, answers every push from Blake with a pull. It’s hard and fast and aggressive, and Blake all but carries him up to the bedroom, shirts left behind, the dogs whining in disappointment at the abandonment.

It’s drunk sex—sloppy and fast, but intense. They’ve done better, but they’ve probably done worse. It’s a lot all at once, then it’s over, and they’re lying in bed not facing each other, as is routine. And Adam isn’t sure if Blake’s asleep when he says, softly, into the darkness, “you know, James actually grew on me.”

He doesn’t know why he said it, why the conversation seemed to need revisiting or why he chose now of all times to do so, especially when Blake’s probably in a drunken doze by now anyway.

But the sheets rustle and tighten around Adam’s hips as Blake rolls over to face him.

“Did you?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Adam says, swallowing hard, suddenly uncomfortable under Blake’s gaze. “Yeah, he turned out to be a pretty cool guy.”

Blake smiles at him, and he smiles back before he can stop himself. They stay that way for a moment before Adam realizes that’s what they’re doing—gazing into each other’s fucking eyes. He shifts back onto his back.

“Night,” he says.

“Night,” Blake echoes.

 

Adam’s barely closed his eyes—or at least that’s what it feels like—when he’s jolted awake by the piercing shrill of that fucking iPhone ringtone. It’s not his, that’s for damn sure.

“Blake,” he says, nudging him.

Blake grunts and bats Adam’s hand away.

“Blake, your phone is ringing,” Adam says. It’s still dark outside, who the hell is calling Blake Shelton of all people at this hour?

Blake lurches out of bed and digs around in his discarded jeans. He looks at the phone’s screen blearily for a moment before answering.

“Endy, what the hell, it’s like four AM, what—” he cuts off abruptly, eyes widening. “She what?”

Adam sits up, hesitantly. It sounds bad—his mom, probably. He can’t imagine who else Blake’s sister would be calling about at this time of night. Even in Oklahoma, it’s early. Adam doesn’t know what to do, so he stays where he is, folding his arms around his knees.

“She didn’t say it’d gotten that bad!” Blake says, standing and pulling on his pants one-handed while talking. He looks around for his shirt.

“It’s downstairs,” Adam says softly. Blake nods at him, then pulls his socks up off the floor and sits on the edge of the bed to put them on.

“Yeah, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he says, still sounding frustrated.

Adam pulls his own phone off the floor by the bed. He can call Blake a car. That’s something small and easy enough. He makes the call quietly, tuning Blake out. When he hangs up, Blake is still sitting on the bed with his phone to his ear, socks now on, looking distraught.

“Why didn’t she—” Blake cuts off as Endy apparently interrupts him. “Yeah. I’ll see you soon.”

He hangs up.

“I called you a car,” Adam says.

“Thanks,” Blake answers absentmindedly.

“I hope everything’s okay with your mom.” It comes out in an oddly small voice.

Blake just nods. “Bye,” he says.

“I’ll see you in a couple weeks,” says Adam.

Blake pauses halfway to the door. “Blinds,” he says as though it’s just occurred to him. “I don’t…”

Adam doesn’t know why, but his stomach sinks.

“I have to go,” Blake says.

When he’s left the bedroom, Adam lies back down and closes his eyes. It’s colder than it was.

 

When Adam wakes up again several hours later, it’s to an email informing him that taping the blind auditions has been postponed until they can find a coach to replace Blake Shelton for season fourteen of The Voice.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s weird—for years, Adam thought that The Voice would be the perfect job if it weren’t for Blake Shelton. But they’ve been filming Blinds for two days now and it doesn’t feel better with him gone.

It’s weird—for years, Adam thought that The Voice would be the perfect job if it weren’t for Blake Shelton. But they’ve been filming Blinds for two days now and it doesn’t feel better with him gone. Usher, god bless him, dropped everything to come back and fill in, and that should be so much better. Adam loves Usher. Who doesn’t love Usher? But there’s something…Adam doesn’t want to say it’s _wrong_ or worse than usual. But it’s different. Off.

The energy has changed, and Adam can’t seem to get his bearings. He keeps trying to snap out of it, but now that Blake is gone he feels somehow more disingenuous than he ever has before. Something about walking onto set still raises his hackles, like he’s gearing up to pretend. But he doesn’t have to pretend anymore, and all that energy is fucking with him. Besides, with Blake gone, there’s nobody to really fight against, nobody to best. He has to compete without playing dirty.

And it’s not just him who’s feeling the difference. Kelly Clarkson is here now, came on at Blake’s urging. Christina’s back too. Everyone had a rapport with Blake, and without him, there’s something missing from the dynamic. It pisses Adam the hell off, the power Blake seems to have had. Like gravity, or something, without him they’re all kind of adrift.

They try, though. A banter develops slowly, Adam working extra hard to engage both Usher and Christina, who haven’t worked together before. And after all, it’s still Blinds. They’re all bending over backwards to get artists on their teams. And Adam finally has the edge—he’s won the most times of anyone here. It’d be something great to rub in Blake’s face—if Blake were here. If Blake’s absence weren’t the only reason it were true in the first place.

So it’s nearing the end of day two, and Adam’s only got two artists today, both one-chair turns. He’s gone up against the other coaches a few times, and he’s lost, and he feels way off his game. There’s one more artist of the day, and Adam doesn’t have particularly high hopes when he hears the footsteps and the music starts up.

Country. Adam sits up a little straighter. This is the first country artist they’ve heard this season, and now Adam thinks about it, that must have been on purpose. This is a whole new ballgame without Blake. And sure, beating Blake with a country artist was always the goal, but hell—this guy is _good_. And there’s no telling where he’ll end up.

Adam glances down the row of chairs. Kelly is listening intently, and Christina is looking thoughtful, like she’s on the same track as Adam. Usher gives nothing away.

Adam pushes his button. Kelly follows immediately, then Christina. And then, on the very last note, Usher.

Adam gears up for a fight.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“I’m Cliff Lansing, I’m from Bixby, Oklahoma.”

There’s a moment, a moment where everyone goes to look at Blake when they hear the word “Oklahoma.” Adam breezes past it.

“Cliff, you are _so_ talented,” he says. “Now I know I’m not really a country guy, but if you look down this row of chairs, you’ll see that this season none of us are. What I do have is experience—I’ve seen so many singers, country singers come through here, and so far, thirteen seasons in, you’re my favorite. I think we could do something new and different and awesome, man. Please join my team.”

“You’re just looking for an excuse to call Blake,” Christina says in that coy voice she always uses with him.

Adam rolls his eyes and leans into it. “I don’t need an excuse to call Blake,” he says, fake-wounded. “Blake and I talk all the time.”

“Adam’s not the only one with Blake’s number,” Kelly jumps in. “Blake and I go way back because I have roots in country music, as Adam seems to have forgotten in his little speech there.”

“We all know how to name-drop Blake Shelton,” Usher says dryly. “But listen, Cliff, your voice is something else. I’m not thinking about Blake Shelton. I’m thinking about _you_.”

“Yeah,” Christina says. “Your voice is incredible. I really love your tone, there’s some rasp in there I think I could really work with. I’d love to have you on my team.”

“Who do you pick as your coach?” Adam asks.

Cliff hesitates. “I think…” He looks back and forth between Adam and Kelly. “I think I’m gonna have to go with Adam.”

Adam jumps out of his chair and fist-pumps before he goes to hug Cliff. He’s excited—a four-chair turn, a country artist. A great way to end the day. And he ignores the little part of him whispering in his ear that this win doesn’t feel quite as good as it could.

 

Adam goes out that night, just to blow off steam. He’s not quite _drunk_ when he lets himself back into his house. Maybe buzzed. Pleasantly tipsy. He absentmindedly pets the dogs as he comes in. It’s only about midnight—he hates to admit it, but he’s getting too old for the whole scene. He’s getting tired earlier and bored of the same kinds of people doing the same kinds of things without ever changing or growing. He doesn’t want to be that, wants to be someone who knows when it’s time to move on, start the next phase of his life. And that might not be today, but it’s certainly coming up sooner than later.

He sinks down onto the couch and turns on the TV, just to fill the silence. Somehow, when there’s quiet around him tonight, his brain has been filling it with Christina’s words from earlier today.

“You’re just looking for an excuse to call Blake.” He can hear it in her voice, see her smile in his head. And it drives him crazy that even with Blake gone, he’s still part of Adam’s…image. Persona. Whatever. He’s tied himself to Blake Shelton—been tied to Blake Shelton. It doesn’t matter what he does for the rest of his career, what happens with the show, nothing. He’s always going to be the guy who had a bromance with Blake Shelton.

So maybe he’s having a little bit of an identity crisis. It’s no big deal. He just doesn’t understand how Blake can continue to have so much power over him when, despite what he told Christina, he hasn’t so much as talked to Blake since he left. And the weird part of it all is that he’s actually noticed.

Adam can’t say for sure if it’s the alcohol or the boredom or the sudden dose of doubt, but suddenly he’s calling Blake Shelton. It rings before his brain has time to catch up with his actions, and well, it’s too late now, apparently he’s calling Blake Shelton. And it’s ringing.

“Hello?” Blake answers in hushed tones, and suddenly Adam remembers that Oklahoma is half a country away.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t realize what time it was there,” he says, feeling like an even bigger idiot than he already felt for making the call in the first place.

“Yeah, it’s…late,” Blake says. He sounds distracted. Adam should just hang up.

“Sorry I woke you,” he says. “It’s no big deal, I’ll go.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Blake says.

“Oh.”

There’s a pause. This is probably where Adam explains why he called.

“How’s your mom?” he asks instead.

Blake sighs. “I don’t know,” he answers. “The doctors say she’s doin’ better, doin’ good even. But she looks all delicate and doesn’t really seem herself. I can’t tell if it’s really bad or if I’ve just been away too long. My sister thinks she’s doin’ better so I guess—” he cuts off. “You don’t wanna hear all this.”

“I asked,” Adam says. Blake’s probably never said that much to him at once, at least not about anything personal. Adam registers that thought dully, but doesn’t know how to feel about it.

Blake sighs again. “Why’d you call, Adam?” he asks.

Adam mulls this over for a moment, leaning back against the arm of the couch and petting Bones, who’s lying on the floor next to him. Why _did_ he call?

“Day two of Blinds today,” he says. “I got this country guy from Oklahoma. Last artist of the day, four-chair turn. He’s incredible.”

It’s _sort of_ an answer to Blake’s question.

Blake doesn’t respond for a moment, and Adam feels bad. He’s rubbing it in Blake’s face, that he couldn’t come back this season. It’s a dick move. He should apologize.

But then Blake chuckles a little. “How’d you pull that off?” he asks. “Guy like that really should have his head on tighter than to make such a dumb decision.”

It’s almost light-hearted, the way Blake says it. It doesn’t fill Adam with the usual ire.

“Christina reminded him of my close personal relationship with you, actually,” he says. “She was trying to tease me but I think it backfired.”

Blake doesn’t say anything to that, and Adam starts feeling tense again. God, this was so stupid. Why did he call Blake?

“Anyway,” he says, just to fill the silence. “Things are pretty different around set without you.”

“I bet,” Blake says shortly.

“I mean, everyone misses you,” Adam adds. He’s not totally sure why, just that he doesn’t want to seem like he’s making Blake feel bad on purpose.

“Everyone?” Blake asks.

Adam’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t know what to say. It’s Blake Shelton. He hates Blake Shelton. But he’s also slept with Blake Shelton, and seen Blake Shelton vulnerable, and…

“Yeah,” he says softly.

Blake doesn’t say anything. Adam doesn’t either—he’s confused, he’s not sober, he’s…all mixed up. And it’s not like he _likes_ Blake. He’s still Blake. Something’s probably wrong with Adam that he misses him. But he does. Miss him. Miss something, at least. And it’s not getting out his anger, and it’s not physical release. It’s something else.

Or else he’s just drunker than he thought and reading too much into things. Yeah, it’s probably that one.

“Listen…” Blake says, and his voice sounds suddenly heavy, even as he trails off. It’s like he’s thinking very carefully about what he’s going to say next. But he just sighs. “Is there anything else?” he asks. “’Cause it’s two in the mornin’.”

“Right, yeah,” Adam says. He shouldn’t be disappointed. He’s _not_ disappointed. He has no reason to be disappointed. “I guess I’ll uh…talk to you later.”

“Sure,” Blake says, and it’s not particularly convincing. Why should it be? They’ve never kept in touch before. Adam doesn’t plan on getting tipsy and making dumb dialing decisions again anytime soon.

“Bye,” Adam says. It feels like too small a word—too stupid a word. This conversation has been surreal and weird and capping it off with a regular word like “bye” seems somehow wrong, invalidating even. But there’s nothing for him to do. He doesn’t have anything else to say. At least, nothing that makes sense.

“Bye,” says Blake, and the line goes dead.

Adam puts his phone down on the coffee table and lays back on the couch. What the fuck is he doing? What’s wrong with him?

Tonight’s a one-off. He tells himself that as he gets up, goes to the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water, and leans against the counter drinking it. Clearly, he had one too many, got a little stupid. He’s obviously stressed—it wasn’t a great night to begin with. He’s just overthinking things. Anyone would tell you he’s prone to that.

Anyway, fuck Blake Shelton. Adam was perfectly nice to him that entire phone call, and Blake was just…whatever. Snippy. Weird. Blake. Adam lets the familiar annoyance and dislike pool in his belly as he finishes his water and lets the dogs out before bed.

And if it’s not as strong as usual, well…that’s Blake’s fault too. Fuck Blake Shelton.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s in Miami when he gets the email informing him and the other coaches that season fourteen’s key advisor is none other than their very own Blake Shelton. And he has so many questions. Adam hasn’t seen Blake since Blake left his bedroom. He hasn’t spoken to him since that drunk phone call. So he’ll see what happens when Blake shows up on set.

Adam can’t remember the last time he was this bored. This season seems to move by glacially. He works hard with his team, he pays rapt attention and gives good comments to the other teams. He even jokes around with the other coaches. It’s easy. And that’s the problem. There’s no urgency anymore, no push/pull, nothing keeping Adam from going on autopilot except his own force of will. And he’s not stupid—he knows what’s different. But he’s trying not to think about that.

Somehow— _somehow_ —they wrap on taped shows, and Adam has to get ready to tour, to go from time moving impossibly slowly to impossibly quickly. He’s getting some kind of jet-lag whiplash, but at least he’s with the band, at least he’s performing, at least he’s doing something that has nothing to do with Blake Shelton.

(Except somehow, everything in his life has _something_ to do with Blake Shelton. Which he probably brought on himself by agreeing, all those years ago, to pretend to get along with the guy, to go along with the whole _bromance_ thing. But still, it’s bugging him more and more lately.)

He’s in Miami when he gets the email informing him and the other coaches that season fourteen’s key advisor is none other than their very own Blake Shelton. And he has so many questions—does this mean Blake’s mom is doing better? Is Blake coming back next season? Are they going to have to do stupid reunion press, just the two of them? Adam hasn’t seen Blake since Blake left his bedroom. He hasn’t spoken to him since that drunk phone call. Are they…Adam doesn’t even know what to think about their relationship at this point, but he knows better than to try to talk to Blake again. So he’ll see what happens when Blake shows up on set.

The thought gives him a stomachache that lasts for the rest of the tour.

 

Live Playoffs go by too fast, and then they’re filming Top 12 rehearsals and Blake is going to be there. Adam’s team rehearses Thursday, and Adam’s been told to come in early so they can get some film of his and Blake’s reunion. So that’s one question answered.

His stomachache gets worse.

He arrives on set even earlier than he’s been asked. He’s out of practice with Blake, with pretending to be the best of friends, and he’s hoping that being on set alone, going through his routine in his trailer, might help him get into the zone.

Part of him thinks he’s fooling himself, that this isn’t like before and there’s no way to prepare for the unknown. But he does his best to shut that part of him up. He can’t do anything but try, after all.

He ends up in his rehearsal room before the cameras, which works out terribly, because it means he ends up with cameras before he ends up with Blake, doesn’t get a chance to see and talk to Blake before they’re set to film. They’re setting up the shots when Blake walks in, sits down silently next to him, and waits for direction.

They just want fluff for now—they have to stick around after rehearsals for a longer interview. They send Blake back out of the room so they can film a literal reunion shot. Adam rolls his eyes at the artificiality of it all but prepares himself anyway.

Cameras are rolling and there’s a knock on the door and Adam has no idea why, but his stomach does a little flip as he says “come in.”

And there’s Blake, and he does what he’s supposed to do and throws himself into Blake’s arms.

“Hi, buddy,” Blake says, squeezing him too tightly, as is his custom. Jackass. Blake kisses his neck and he freezes for half a second. He can tell Blake notices as they separate.

“Did you miss me?” Blake asks.

Adam wrinkles his nose for the camera. “Not at all,” he says.

Blake smirks and ruffles his hair. Adam slaps his hand away— _playfully_ —and tries not to think about the way he contradicted that the last time they spoke.

“You’re such a bad liar,” Blake says.

“Well, you’re a bad singer,” Adam says. “And they still brought you in to help coach my team of champions.”

“I was actually told to spend the most time with your team,” Blake says, and Adam doesn’t totally doubt that’s true. “So they can get in even a week of decent coachin’,”

Adam puts on his most impish smile. “I don’t think that’s true,” he says. “I think you’re gonna spend the most time with my team because you love me and want me to win.”

It’s almost scary how _easy_ this is. Easier than ever before, even. Adam doesn’t know why—he’s still got a stomachache, is still totally tied up in knots and doesn’t know what to think about anything. But the words are just coming out of him no problem.

“Are you actually admittin’ I’ll be helpful?” Blake asks. It’s weird how he can make his eyes sparkle like that when he’s just pretending. It’s also weird that Adam is noticing the way his eyes are sparkling.

“You always see right through me, man,” Adam says in response, and Blake enfolds him in another hug.

Adam’s out of ways to be charming when they separate—he doesn’t know what other on-camera fluff there _is_ , really. Lucky for him, the segment director seems to agree, and pulls them aside for individual interviews. Adam was hoping that there wouldn’t be time for a whole to-do about his and Blake’s reunion—after all, Top 12 is a lot of show to get through. But it’s looking like they’re putting together a whole segment—maybe for the eliminations show.

“Of course I didn’t miss Blake,” he says to the camera when prompted. “I hate Blake. Blake’s the worst.”

He lets that linger for a moment. “It is nice to have him back, though,” he adds. He’s not even sure he’s lying.

 

Mia’s the first artist of the day, which Adam appreciates, because the girl does not shut up, and it serves as a valuable buffer for the tension between him and Blake. If it even is tension. Adam’s not sure what it is. The…uncertainty between him and Blake.

She’s also an incredible singer, and it helps to start out on a good foot. She’s just finished her first run-through and Blake is smiling.

“I think you might wanna ease up a little at the beginnin’,” he says. “You really wanna let this one simmer, so when you hit that last chorus you can kinda explode into it.”

“Yeah,” Adam says, nodding along. It’s good advice. He hates to admit it, but it’s good advice. “Simmer. I like that. You wanna turn that heat up slowly so you don’t boil over.” He smiles. “If you start above boiling point—”

“Water doesn’t go over boiling point,” Mia interrupts.

“Fine,” Adam says. “But in this metaphor—”

“What?” Blake asks, cutting him off. And God if the two of them aren’t going to be the death of him.

“Boiling is the phase change,” Mia says.

Adam rolls his eyes at Blake as she continues. “Once you hit boiling temperature, any energy you’re adding is latent heat. All the energy goes into changing the water from liquid to gas, so it doesn’t actually change the temperature anymore.”

“Really?”

Adam shoots a glare at Blake. There’s no way he’s interested in this. He just being a tool, trying to derail the rehearsal and make Adam the bad guy for getting back on track. Well, joke’s on him.

“Okay,” Adam says. “That works too. If you start _at_ boiling point, you have nowhere to go. You don’t want to end up like water vapor floating around all up here.”

He gestures around in the air around his head. Blake actually laughs at that.

 

Rehearsals go well. After Mia is Cliff and that is a match made in fucking heaven. And. Well. Blake is…well, he’s a really good coach. And they make a good team—Blake’s ideas inspire Adam to his own. He kind of hates it. But hell, maybe he’ll win again this season. Cliff has a real chance.

He says as much in the second individual interview they do with him after all his artists have rehearsed. They wrap quickly on that one after he gives his thoughts about all three of them. And then it’s Blake’s turn, and Adam is, as usual, hungry, so he goes to find a sandwich or something before they have to sit down together. Once he’s found one, he goes back to the rehearsal room with it—production is never happy when Adam makes them wait, especially if it’s about food.

He lets himself in quietly and sits on the floor by the door while Blake talks.

“Cliff is really somethin’ special,” he’s saying. “Adam actually called me—it was two AM in Oklahoma and I got this call from Adam braggin’ about how he got a country singer from Oklahoma on his team.”

Adam’s throat drops into his stomach. He doesn’t know why, but he suddenly feels sick, feels violated, even as he knows how stupid that is. How many times have they talked about calling or texting each other on camera? So this time it’s true. There’s no problem with that.

“I think he was just glad one of us finally picked him,” Blake says with a chuckle.

Adam wants to throw up. There’s no reason he should feel bad about this, no fucking reason. But that phone call just…it wasn’t about Adam Levine and Blake Shelton, Voice Coaches and partners in bromance. It was about Blake and Adam and whatever the fuck they are. Were. Whatever. It was _real_. Adam thought it was real. It doesn’t belong on television. Blake could have at least checked with him. Hell, Blake could have at least _talked_ to him, said a single word to him all day. Anytime the cameras weren’t rolling, he’s been…chilly, at best.

Adam doesn’t know what he was expecting. It’s Blake Shelton. Blake Shelton hates him. And he hates Blake Shelton. Even though it feels like he’s had to remind himself of that a lot lately, it is still true. Now he remembers why.

Blake’s done, and Adam’s supposed to join him. He puts his sandwich down on a table and steels himself before sitting down next to Blake and grabbing for his hand. Blake shifts away and Adam looks at the camera before he tries again.

“Hold my hand,” he says insistently.

Blake smiles—that fake smile Adam knows well—and laces his fingers through Adam’s. Adam holds it up for the camera.

“We’re back,” he says, then drops their hands below frame and squeezes tightly—too tightly. He’s in the mood to piss off Blake Shelton. And not in the fun way.

They’re prompted— _what’s it like to be working together again?_

Adam turns to Blake and gestures with his free hand that he should take this one.

“Terrible,” Blake says. “If there’s one thing I haven’t missed, it’s this jackass.”

“Charming,” Adam says dryly. Fuck Blake Shelton.                           

“It’s different though,” Adam says. “We’re normally competing. It’s weird to be on the same team, isn’t it?”

Blake laughs and shakes his head. “You do realize I’m on every team?”

“I’d heard that about you,” Adam shoots back. He tightens his grip on Blake’s hand again. “But come on, isn’t it nice to be working together for once?”

“You are less annoying,” Blake says.

“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me, Blake.”

“Hold on, I just said _less._ You’re still annoying.”

Adam tightens his grip again. Blake grimaces for just a moment, and Adam’s officially won, so he lets go.

“Well, you sure know how to ruin a beautiful moment,” he says.

 

They stay for another twenty minutes, and when they’re finally cleared to leave, they end up walking out together. Adam makes a beeline for his trailer. Blake trails behind him.

“What’s up your ass?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Adam says without looking back. Why is Blake even asking him? They weren’t speaking before. Why should they now?

“Listen, Adam.” Blake grabs his wrist. Adam shakes him off but turns to look at him. “Can we talk?”

Adam almost laughs. “You wanna talk?” he asks. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Blake just looks at him. “Can we?” he asks.

“Fine,” Adam says. He heads for his trailer again, this time a little slower.

Once they’re inside, Adam gestures for Blake to sit. He’s going to stand—wants to maintain the high ground in this conversation. Whatever it’s about. He doesn’t even know. There’s plenty to discuss but there’s no precedent for them actually discussing any of it.

“What’s up?” he asks warily.

“I just wanted to…” Blake trails off. “I just wanted to say sorry for just takin’ off like that.”

And this Adam did not expect. “Blake, you went to take care of your mom.”

“I know, but I just kinda dropped off the face of the planet, you know?” Blake runs a hand through his hair. “It kinda made things complicated.”

“Things were already pretty complicated,” Adam says.

“They weren’t supposed to be,” Blake responds, and Adam actually lets out a laugh at that. Because no, they really weren’t. They were supposed to be simple.

“Anyway,” Blake says. “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea.”

Hold up. “The wrong idea?” Adam repeats.

“Yeah,” Blake says, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. “I wasn’t tryin’ to lead you on or anything.”

“Lead me on?” What Blake is saying is starting to sink in now. “Jesus, you are beyond arrogant.”

“You called me at two in the mornin’,” Blake says.

“Months ago,” Adam points out.

“And you seemed real mad at me in there for some reason.”

“Because you’re an asshole,” Adam supplies helpfully.

“It seems like you—”

“No.” Adam cuts Blake off. “God, you’re such a prick. This whole time you were thinking I—what? Have _feelings_ for you?”

Blake is smirking now, that obnoxious fucking smirk like he knows something Adam doesn’t. But no. He doesn’t know a damn thing.

“Let me set the record straight,” Adam snaps. “We fucked last season. For whatever fucking reason. I don’t know. But we did. And then you went home to take care of your mom. That’s it. The end. I haven’t been sitting here pining for you. We’ve been pretending to be friends for so fucking long now, and I can’t go a single day without someone telling me how much I care about you, so yeah, I called once. Because it’s weird, what we are. And your mom is sick and I was drunk, if you remember. But the only thing that’s changed since you left is that my life has gotten easier.”

Blake’s still smirking, somehow. “Are you done?” he asks, and Adam could punch him, _would_ punch him if they weren’t going on live television in a few days and the producers weren’t up their ass all the time.

“Yeah,” Adam says. He turns to go—fuck that this is _his_ trailer, he’s in the mood to storm out. But he hasn’t even gotten to the door when Blake is standing, and crossing the room and towering over him, closing in on him.

“You’re pretty hot when you’re pissed off,” Blake says.

“Fuck off,” Adam snaps, shoving him away.

It can’t hurt—it wasn’t a hard shove by any means. But when Blake steps back, he looks a little…well, Adam doesn’t care. He’s at the door now and he opens it and walks out, making damn sure to slam it behind him. He’s going home to take a nap. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That night’s press carpet is a nightmare. It’s question after question about Blake—have they spent any time together since Blake’s been in town, what was it like having Blake helping him, blah blah blah. It’s enough to put Adam in an even worse mood than usual as he walks the carpet—which is saying a lot. He hates talking to reporters, about anything, really. But especially Blake. He’s strung out and tired by the time it happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this chapter was like pulling teeth, but i'm trying to get my rhythm back--bear with me, the gaps between chapters will hopefully be shorter until the end

The Top Twelve show is…different. Having Blake back isn’t what he was expecting. Between Usher and Kelly, Adam’s never been so hard-up for Blake’s attention. Which should probably be a relief, but is surprisingly bothering him. They have one moment, one fucking moment all night, and only because Carson and Christina make it happen, giving them shit about how much they’ve missed each other until they hug. Otherwise, Blake is giving him _nothing_. And it’s so fucking obnoxious—that after Blake pulled the shit he pulled the other day, he’s not even being professional about it. But he can get away with it. It’s a big show, Top Twelve, and besides, they’re not contractually obligated to do _anything_ this season.

They did a good job cutting the rehearsal segments together—the audience goes nuts when Blake tells the cameras about the phone call and all around, it looks a hell of a lot friendlier than it feels in here. Blake is barely looking at him when the cameras aren’t on them. But Adam doesn’t fucking care, obviously. What does Blake matter to him?

Answer: he doesn’t. That’s that. Anyway, Blake’s not coming back tomorrow night. It’s over. He’s done. And it sucks that it ended this way, but really, what else was Adam expecting? The way it started, the way it’s been. The way they hated each other. Hate. Hated. God, Adam doesn’t fucking know. He _should_ hate him. He should absolutely hate him, the asshole. But it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s over.

 

The next night they run a whole featurette on Adam and Blake’s reunion—elimination shows always need extra fodder. It’s a good segment—cute, funny, whatever. When the camera pans to Adam after the segment airs, he makes a pouty face.

“Look at him,” Christina says. "It hasn’t even been a day!”

“It’s been exactly a day,” Adam corrects her, as sassily as he can. He still knows how to play. “And I can’t help it. I miss him so much!”

“Well, try to keep it together,” Carson says with a wry smile before he continues the show.

 

That night’s press carpet is a nightmare. Usually when Adam has to answer questions about the bromance, he’s at least with Blake, or one of the other coaches even. Someone to give him a hard time and act as a buffer. Tonight, he’s alone. And that segment all but fed him to the fucking sharks. It’s question after question about Blake—have they spent any time together since Blake’s been in town, what was it like having Blake helping him, blah blah blah. It’s enough to put Adam in an even worse mood than usual as he walks the carpet—which is saying a lot. He hates talking to reporters, about anything, really. But especially Blake. He’s strung out and tired by the time it happens.

It’s innocuous enough at first—just another woman from ET with a whole lot of questions about Blake Shelton. And he’s parroting the same lines he’s been saying all night, and she’s clearly not satisfied with that, wants something she can really sink her teeth into, and that’s clearly her thought process when she asks “So does it feel good to have outlasted Blake on the show?”

Adam pauses while he takes in what she asked. What a fucking insensitive question. And sure, fuck Blake Shelton and all, but still.

“No,” he says. “No, it doesn’t feel good at all. It wasn’t a contest.”

“Sure,” she says, with an air of conceding to a child. “But you’ve gotta be rubbing it in his face a little bit that he gave up before you did, right?”

“I am absolutely not doing that,” Adam says, and he can hear the annoyance in his voice but can’t find it in him to care. This question is rude and he’s exhausted and he doesn’t appreciate the implication that he’s _this_ petty, even as a bromantic joke. “Blake didn’t _give up_ anything. He went home to take care of his mother. Nobody’s keeping score about how many seasons of The Voice we’ve done right now.”

“Of course,” she says, but he can tell there’s more to come, that she’s going to keep pushing. “But—”

“No,” he snaps. “Blake and I like to joke around on the show—” his stomach turns a little at that way of describing it, _joking around_ , as if that's really all it is “—but I care about him and I’m not going to treat his fucking family like a punchline to keep people like you entertained by whatever the fuck it is you want our relationship to be.”

_Friendship_. He should have said friendship.

He knows immediately that it’s a fuck-up, a huge fuck-up, just from the way this reporter is looking at him, like she just got a promotion. And while realistically, he knows it’s just gonna be a YouTube video and the headline of a couple trashy articles, a talking-to from the producers and maybe his own publicist, the anxiety of it all hits him fast. He excuses himself and goes the fuck home.

 

He forgets to turn his phone off—blame the weed. The flood of notifications is enough to alert him the second the video goes up, and he actually throws the thing across the room. He’s too tired to deal with this shit right now. He’s tired and he’s high and if he could just calm the fuck down he would be able to go to sleep and wake up in the morning with perspective and some goddamn chill.

Things have been fuzzy around the edges for maybe a couple of hours when his doorbell rings. He’s resolved himself to ignore it, but it keeps ringing. And ringing. Unless it’s ringing in his ears? But it’s pretty loud, so it’s probably actually ringing, and he drags himself to the front door to answer it. He hopes it’s not paparazzi—every once in a while they make it through the gates, and he thinks his phone is probably still blowing up, so he has to prepare himself to call security and deal with flashing lights.

But it’s not paparazzi. It’s Blake. It’s Blake looking wrecked, unshaven and tousle-haired and shaking, and Adam hasn’t so much as opened the door when Blake is kissing him. And it’s _different_ , somehow, softer or more tender or Adam doesn’t know what, he doesn’t have the words for it right now. But he does know it’s confusing as hell, and he shoves Blake off.

“What the hell, man?”

Blake backs off immediately, hands in the air, and he looks…wretched. “I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I’m sorry. I just thought…”

“What?” Adam’s heart is pounding and he isn’t sure how to feel, but he’s not as mad as he knows he should be. Maybe it’s because of how fucking torn up Blake looks. “Blake, how are things going?” he asks, almost against his own will.

Blake looks at him, rakes a hand absently through his hair. He doesn’t answer, but he takes a few tentative steps towards Adam. “I saw what you said tonight to that reporter,” he says in a much smaller voice than Adam’s ever heard from him—a much smaller voice than anyone of Blake’s size should ever speak in. “Did you mean it?” he asks.

“I…” Adam doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know if he has a clear enough head for this conversation. The edges of things are still swimming a little. But if he concentrates, he’s fine, and he can’t use weed as an excuse to skip this conversation. “Sure. Of course I meant it.”

Blake laughs hollowly. “You say _of course_ as if everything we’ve ever said to each other isn’t a lie.”

“Not everything,” Adam says. “Just most of it.”

“Listen, Adam,” Blake says. “I’m sorry about the other day. I didn’t mean…I’ve been havin’ a rough few months and somehow I got it in my head that was your fault, that things were confusin’ because of you and not because…well…”

He gestures vaguely.

“Yeah,” Adam says. “You’ve got a lot going on.”

“It was just easier to make you into the only one who…” He trails off and looks up at Adam, who’s suddenly finding it a little difficult to get air into his lungs.

“Adam…” Blake’s crossing the room again, hands falling onto Adam’s hips, but they’re gentle, tentative. 

Adam wants to say no—he resolved himself to the end of things. It’s over, they’re over. But something feels so different when Blake kisses him. There’s no anger, no aggression in the way his lips are moving on Adam’s. _Latent heat_ , he thinks. A tiny voice in the back of his head. The temperature can’t go up anymore when the energy’s going somewhere else. Something’s changing.

Adam’s lips part and he leans into Blake before he can help it. Blake lifts him onto the counter and Adam leans in closer. He was never one for this—usually everything they do is about efficiency. He’ll fuck Blake Shelton, he’ll feel bad about it, take a shower, start over. But now…he could kiss Blake like this all day, and Blake seems to be in the same boat. It’s something else, something he’s never felt before. Not with Blake, at least. But _God_ , it’s just on the edge of something that feels strangely real. Even when the kisses deepen, when Blake leans over him and presses him back onto the counter, there’s no sharp edges to any of it. It’s almost…sweet. And Adam is helpless against it.

Blake’s hands are under Adam’s shirt now, tight on his hips, and Adam shivers despite the heat they’re spreading. Blake pulls him closer, and Adam wraps his legs around his waist. It’s the moment they would usually get up, disentangle, and walk up to the bedroom without making too much eye contact, but Blake only deepens the kiss and Adam can’t help it—he moans. And they’ve absolutely crossed a line here, a line of connection or attachment or whatever it is they were avoiding here. But Blake doesn’t stop and Adam doesn’t want him to. Blake tugs at Adam’s t-shirt and Adam sits up a little to help remove it. Blake looks down at him and it’s without the usual intense stare of hunger. His eyes are almost _reverent_ this time, and it should make Adam self-conscious, but he doesn’t. He just leans back in to kiss Blake while tugging at the buttons of his flannel.

Adam’s losing breath kissing Blake and the flannel is still on when he feels himself being lifted up, carried, and he lets himself go boneless, melt against Blake entirely as they climb the stairs. He feels…he doesn’t know really, what the word is, but he feels _something_ , and that alone is enough to set him on a strange kind of edge. Blake lays him down on the bed and crawls on top of him. For a second, they just look at each other, dead in the eye, and Adam swallows hard against some lump that’s in his throat for whatever reason.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey,” Blake responds.

The silence between them seems to stretch, then settle, and when Blake kisses him again, it’s slow and deep and somehow quiet. Adam’s fingers tremble as they move back down to Blake’s buttons, and Adam doesn’t know why his heart picks up the pace now of all times, but it does, it’s thudding away in his chest and he could swear that he feels Blake smile against his lips in response to it. And Adam doesn’t know what this is—what they’re doing, why it feels so good, but he knows he doesn’t want it to stop, knows that even as his mind is whirring away trying to work through what the hell has changed, his body doesn’t seem all too concerned with it. And when Blake moves to kiss his neck, he can’t find it in him to care anymore. He just gives into the flood of unnamed (and possibly unnamable) feelings washing over him. Blake kisses him, and it’s good, and that’s all he has to worry about tonight.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Everything got pretty complicated, huh?” Blake says finally.
> 
> Adam laughs, still looking down at his coffee instead of at Blake. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty fucking complicated.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise!

Blake wakes up before him in the morning. Adam staggers downstairs to the kitchen to find Blake sitting at the counter with two mugs of coffee in front of him. Adam shifts uncomfortably as he crosses the room to sit next to him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” Blake looks at him with soft eyes, and fuck him for having such blue eyes. Adam is more confused than ever, which he would have thought impossible until last night. But here he is. Here they are.

Adam sips his coffee in silence.

“So,” Blake starts. “I’m sorry I just showed up last night.”

Adam swallows. “I’m not. I don’t think.”

Blake laughs. “Me neither,” he admits.

They’re quiet for another moment.

“Everything got pretty complicated, huh?” Blake says finally.

Adam laughs, still looking down at his coffee instead of at Blake. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty fucking complicated.”

“You think maybe it doesn’t have to be anymore?”

Adam actually looks up at that. “What?” he asks.

From Adam’s perspective, there’s no easy way to untangle this mess. If there was, he would have done so already. It’s not like he _likes_ how messy it’s all become. It’s not like he doesn’t miss how simple it used to be. They shouldn’t have gotten into this situation in the first place. But they’re here now and it’s just complicated.

“You know, just…” Blake jerks his head vaguely.

“Just what?” Adam asks. If they’re going to talk about it, actually talk about it for once, he wants to at least be clear. Simple terms.

 “I think I’m comin’ back next season,” Blake says, looking uncomfortable. “My mom’s doin’ better and I can take the time to be out here for the season again. I’ll probably have to go back to Oklahoma more often over the breaks but…I’m comin’ back.”

“That’s great, Blake,” Adam says, and he means it, he really does. “I’m really happy for you.”

“And I just thought, maybe…” Blake trails off.

“What?” Adam asks, his stomach suddenly dropping.

“I don’t really hate you anymore,” Blake says.

Adam snorts. “That’s glowing praise,” he says.

Blake shakes his head and laughs. “You know what I mean,” he says.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“What do you think about starting over?” Blake asks, and his voice is less soft, but it’s like he’s trying hard to make it less soft.

“I think it’d be pretty fucking hard after all this,” Adam says, still not sure what Blake is proposing. Or what he’d be open to. But _starting over_ certainly isn’t an option, not after seven years of fake friendship and whatever _this_ is.

Blake laughs. “Fair enough.”

Adam pours milk in his coffee, just to have something to do with his hands. He watches it swirl, carefully, the loops of white mixing into the brown, softening it, cooling it. Focusing on the pattern makes him feel a little high, and something tugs at his mind.  _Once you hit boiling temperature, any energy you’re adding is latent heat. All the energy goes into changing the water from liquid to gas, so it doesn’t actually change the temperature anymore._ The temperature’s been going up ever since they started this whole thing. Every day another degree, sometimes more. Except last night. Last night the mercury stopped rising—and there was sure as hell energy to spare. It’s time for a phase change. So what’s the next step? He takes a deep breath.

“I don’t hate you anymore either,” he says.

“Yeah, I kind of got that,” Blake says.

“Fuck you.”

It’s quiet again. Blake is playing with his spoon, stirring his coffee and tapping it against the side of his mug.

Adam sighs. “So, friends?” he asks.

Blake looks at him, and Adam wishes he were smarter or more perceptive or something, because there’s a lot in that look, and Adam doesn’t know what it is—if he’s saying all the wrong things, or the right ones, if Blake thinks he’s crazy or wants to fuck him or wants to let him down easy. But things can’t go on the way they’ve been going on. It’s too confusing. And God knows they shouldn’t be anything more than friends—there’s no way that could be healthy. Besides, it’s a long throw from _I don’t hate you_ to…well. Friends is a safe bet, probably. Adam took a shot.

“Friends,” Blake says, and it’s like he’s weighing the word, like the same conversation is happening in his head that just happened in Adam’s. But probably slower, because of the whole drawl thing.

Adam stirs his coffee again and takes a sip. He added too much milk and it’s barely coffee anymore, but he drinks it anyway just to seem occupied during Blake’s pause—the longest fucking pause imaginable. If you’d have asked him weeks ago, Adam would have said things between him and Blake could not possibly get weirder. But here it is. Weirder.

“Why not?” Blake says, finally. “Might as well try doin’ what we’ve been pretendin’ to do for years, I guess.”

Adam laughs a little, but doesn’t know what to say to that. Because what comes after you decide to be friends? What do he and Blake even have in common? What are they supposed to talk about? Are they going to like, hang out now? He finishes his coffee. This is weird.

“How long are you in town for?” he asks, finally. Just for something to say. That’s the kind of question a friend would ask.

“I’m headin’ back tomorrow mornin’,” Blake says. “My mom’s still got a ways to go. I should be there.”

“But she’s doing better?” Adam asks. He knows Blake already mentioned that she was, but he still feels woefully uninformed on the topic—he doesn’t even know what was wrong in the first place. Blake hasn’t been public about it and it’s not like the two of them ever shared a whole lot, regardless of what was going on between them. Adam just assumed it was cancer or something of that magnitude. He feels like a bad friend now—which is stupid. He’s been Blake’s friend for all of twenty seconds. He can’t be bad at it already, can he?

“Yeah,” Blake says. “Full recovery, the doctors say.”

“I’m glad.”

Adam doesn’t know what else to say. And he wants to bring it up, to ask Blake if it’s going to stay this awkward, but calling attention to the awkwardness just seems more awkward. They’ve had conversations before, right? Maybe not a lot of them, but there were times in the past year or so that they’ve had non-combative conversations. He wracks his brain, but comes up blank.  Finally, he settles on something he _knows_ is common ground.

“Have you been recording at all while you’ve been home?” he asks.

Blake shakes his head. “Nah, I kinda just…hit pause,” he says.

Adam nods and lapses back into silence. Damn it.

“It’s okay, you know,” Blake says.

“What?”

“It’ll take some gettin’ used to.”

It takes a second to understand that Blake is acknowledging Adam’s incompetent attempts to be casual, but when he does, Adam bursts out laughing. “This feels so _dumb_ ,” he admits through his giggles.

Blake chuckles at that, and then they’re laughing together, and it feels just a little bit less difficult.

“Look,” Blake says. “It’s a new thing. We don’t have to…” he trails off, searching for the words.

“Start a bromance?” Adam suggests, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

Blake punches his arm. “Not how I’d put it,” he says. “But fine. We don’t have to start a bromance immediately." Or at all. "I’ll be back on the show next season. We’ll see each other every day. It’ll get easier.”

Adam nods. “You’re right,” he says.

Blake takes a sip of his coffee. Adam thinks about the show. And it makes him shrink back from Blake, because he knows that they have another contract negotiation in store for them, another season of mandated affection. And if he thought being all over Blake was bad when he hated him, what could it possibly be like now? They’re sitting side-by-side at his kitchen counter, they had…shockingly intimate sex last night, but after the conversation they just had, the idea of so much as touching Blake suddenly feels like the weirdest and worst thing he could possibly do.

“Helluva last time though, huh?” Blake says, and Adam snaps back to reality.

“Oh,” he says. He didn’t know they were going to acknowledge that. “Yeah.” Because it was. Not a bad way to go out at all. And if this year was what it took to get them to a point of...friendliness, or whatever, then he guesses it was worth it. At least he got to have all that good sex.

Blake finishes his coffee. “Gotta go,” he says, getting up off his stool.

“Sure,” Adam says, without standing. If he stands, he just knows there’ll be some kind of handshake/hug question. If he stays sitting he can just wave goodbye, and that is appropriately friendly as far as he's concerned. “See ya.”

“Good luck with Lives,” Blake says. “I'm rootin' for your team.”

Adam can feel himself blush, which is stupid. “Thanks,” he says. “Have fun in Oklahoma. I hope your mom’s recovery goes well. And that you…kill some deer or whatever.”

Blake rolls his eyes a little as he puts his shoes on, but he smiles, and it seems good-natured enough. “I’ll be sure to do that,” he says.

Adam smiles back and there’s a moment where they’re just smiling at each other. And it’s nice, until it’s too long, and then it’s right on back to awkward, and Adam looks back down at his mug.

“Bye,” Blake says.

“Bye.” Adam waves from his stool as Blake shows himself out.

It’ll probably get easier.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam never quite realized how hard friendships are to maintain. Or at least, this friendship. He’s got a lot of friends, and he’s never been quite as…aware of his own role in a friendship. It doesn’t help that Blake is half a country away.

Adam never quite realized how hard friendships are to maintain. Or at least, this friendship. After all, he’s been friends with Jesse and the other guys since high school, James a long time too, and that’s never been much of an issue. He’s got a lot of friends, and he’s never been quite as…aware of his own role in a friendship. It doesn’t help that Blake is half a country away.

They don’t really have precedent for communicating over distance—at least when they’re in the same room, there’s a roadmap to follow for what their friendship _should_ look like—they’ve been carefully making it for years. There’s a precedent for interaction on social media, but the problem is their social media interactions are…well, they’re just not _there_ yet. Adam doesn’t know how to start. Aside from that one phone call, they don’t have a history of communication. But here they are, supposedly _friends_. Adam should be able to text Blake. He feels a little obligated to keep lines of communication open, so it doesn’t get too awkward for the next time they do see each other. But he has no idea what to say.

It doesn’t feel like it should take this much thought. And what makes it all the worse is that Blake does not seem to be having the same trouble. Every few days it seems he sends Adam a text, and it’s always exactly the kind of text Adam wishes he could be sending. They’re all light and breezy and worthy conversation starters—he’s watching the show, and he’ll come in hot with coaching tips or commentary, and once even a link to a stupid TRL clip from years ago, brainstorming the best way to annoy Carson with it. Adam doesn’t know how the hell he’s doing it. It’s like it’s _easy_ for him or something. The best Adam can do is funny rehearsal stories and catching-up questions. It’s _fine_. Blake has funny stories of his own from years past. And Adam’s getting a background—Blake’s mom is doing well; he’s heading to Nashville and getting back into the studio soon; he’s gearing up for some big hunting trips. These are all good things to know (well, maybe not the last one). But he feels like he’s underperforming next to Blake, like his friendship chops are being tested and found wanting. It’s hard to get rid of the competitive edge in the way he thinks of Blake. But he’s trying.

Besides, he’s got other things to worry about. Lives are draining. He loves them—loves the rush, loves seeing his contestants blossom and grow and perform their asses off. But they’re draining—rehearsal schedules crazy during the week and then two adrenaline-packed live shows that sometimes ends with one of his artists going home. They’re in the Semifinals, and he’s down to two, Mia and Cliff. And he’s feeling good about it, but the other teams are also strong. And he’s stressed. There’s always a point in the Lives where it just finally catches up with him—the fatigue, the effort. He gets a little extra stressed.

And it’s Wednesday, and Mia wasn’t at her best last night, and Adam’s trying to get through his yoga routine without getting distracted, without thinking about everything stressing him out. Trying to embrace the whole fucking point of yoga and actually relax. It’s not going particularly well, even before his phone buzzes. It’s Blake. And he’s already distracted enough--he might as well look at this point.

_What would Mia sing for an instant save?_

That doesn’t help, and he doesn’t hold back his irritation as he taps out a response.

**I don’t know. Shut up.**

He throws his phone back down next to his yoga mat and tries to focus again. Center himself, or whatever. Sometimes if he just really concentrates on the movements, on getting the motion of his body exactly right, that’s as good as meditation.

Not this time. His phone buzzes again and he grabs it and reads the message.

_She’ll be fine either way and Cliff goes through no problem. Put on a fresh white t-shirt and relax_

Adam rolls his eyes. It’s more comforting than he wants to admit. Blake keeps doing this—and this is the difference between him and Adam. He has different boundaries when it comes to their previous relationship. Because Blake always teased Adam about the t-shirts, when it was fake and forced and pissed Adam off so much he would bite the inside of his cheek raw. Adam assumed they wouldn’t bring up those kinds of things. Blake has no such compunctions.

And that’s fine—that makes sense. After all, Adam is the one who said they couldn’t start over, and the teasing doesn’t really bug him now that he knows it’s good-natured. But it’s why Blake has such an easy time with it—he doesn’t think about these things. Overthink these things. No wonder he’s so much better at this whole real friendship thing.

Whatever.

Adam goes back to his yoga.

 

Cliff and Mia both go home in Semis.  It catches Adam totally off-guard—sure, he saw Mia going, but he really thought Cliff could go all the way. And he’s been doing this long enough that it doesn’t really _hurt_ so much as it, well…stings. It stings not winning, but he always gets over it easy enough. The worst part is always the rest of the shows. He just doesn’t _like_ sitting there with no skin in the game. The whole “now I can just sit back and enjoy a good show” line they always spit out is bullshit for him. It is a good show, fine, but the fun in doing the show in the first place is that you could win this whole thing. The finale without the chance of winning is nice enough to watch, he’s sure, but he’s worked all season and he’s lost, and now he has to sit here without any urgency whatsoever. Just a mellow night in his coach’s chair while everyone around him is shot up with adrenaline. He hates being the chill one.

Blake is making it better. The plus of a live show that Adam has never cashed in on before is real-time commentary from people watching at home. And Blake has never watched a finale at home before. It’s clear he doesn’t like being out of the action, judging by his response to one of Kelly’s artists’ duet with Jenny Lewis.

_Tell her I think she did great_

Adam rolls his eyes as he taps out a response.

**I’m not going to do that.**

They don’t even respond to these performances, and Blake very well knows that. He’s just being annoying.

Adam’s careful to keep his phone off-camera. Carson’s given him a Look a couple times, but there’s not much he can do about it, right? Adam doesn’t have much else to do. Besides, it’s not like he’s texting during performances. Only when it’s appropriate. Like now, when they’re about to go to commercial anyway.

_Why? It’s not like anyone cares about your opinion_

Adam raises his eyebrows at the response. It’s funny—his brain still contextualizes all their interactions by how they’d look to the public eye. This is gold content. And nobody’s going to see it. And Adam’s still getting used to that.

**I’m trying to FOCUS** , he types. It’s not necessarily true, but it should be, at least. The reply comes quicker than he hoped.

_You know you don’t have any artists in, right? You can relax_

Adam sighs.

**I’m relaxed** , he sends back quickly. Indignantly.

_Have you ever been relaxed a day in your life?_

They’re coming back from commercial, so Adam taps out a quick **Yes** and puts his phone back in his pocket and concentrates on the performance going on. This show is so _long_. He knows he shouldn’t be, but he’s bored, and he’s exhausted, and he just wants to go home. He tries to keep his face engaged. He and the band still aren’t performing for another half hour.

_Name one time_

_See you can’t even name one time you were relaxed_

_I see I touched a nerve_

_Tell Carson I miss him_

Adam laughs to himself as he reads through all the messages Blake’s sent in the past seven minutes. Carson’s got forty seconds, then they’re back to commercial. There are so many fucking commercial breaks for these shows.

**Stop bugging me.**

It’s weird how easy it is to engage this way—exactly the way they were pretending to, all this time. This fake animosity layered over friendship is so easy to play out. It’s almost surprising they made it as long as they did without just giving in and burying the hatchet. A testament to their stubbornness, then.

_Just tell him I wish I were there with him_

Adam rolls his eyes. Blake is really enjoying himself, isn’t he? Well, Adam isn’t going to play along that easily.

**We don’t have a whole lot of airtime.**

_Tell him off-air_

Adam shakes his head. Blake is persistent. And annoying. And Adam can’t stop smiling. But still, it’s time to be reasonable.

**If he knows we’re talking, he’ll be very confused.**

_Tell him I love him_

**Oh my god, will you just shut up?**

They’re almost back from commercial—but there’s no reason not to just humor Blake’s obnoxious request, just this once. There’s time.

“Hey Carson,” he calls up to where Carson is waiting onstage. Carson meets his eyes inquisitively. “Blake says he misses you and loves you.”

Carson raises an eyebrow. “Blake says…?” he repeats.

Adam waves his phone. “He’s being obnoxious. I just want to be able to tell him I told you.”

Carson’s forehead wrinkles. “You know we’re not on air, right, Adam?”

Adam sighs. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’m just telling you.”

Carson looks like he has more questions, or comments, or something, but they’re being counted back in, so he turns to face the camera.

“Welcome back to The Voice Live Finale, and a special shout-out to Blake Shelton, who I hear is watching from home. I miss you too, buddy.”

It’s seamless, he moves on without much more than a couple-second lag, but Adam shrinks back in his seat and waits for the silent buzz of his phone.

_See I told you he’d want to hear it_

Adam exhales heavily as he types his response.

**I hate you.**

Carson’s introducing the next performance, and Adam reminds himself that he’s eager to watch Lorde perform. He’s putting his phone back in his pocket when it buzzes again.

_Not anymore you don’t_

He smiles despite himself and taps out a quick response as the lights go down. It still baffles him, the casual way Blake talks about...everything. But as long as _he_ is...

**Why’d I change my position on that again?**

Adam doesn’t look at his phone again until after they cut to commercial, and he’s expecting another cavalcade of messages. But there’s just the one.

_Wow that is hurtful_

Adam laughs to himself. He feels Carson’s eyes on him, questioning, wondering. This is really throwing him off, apparently. Next season should be interesting. But still, he should probably cool it with the texting. His performance is coming up soon anyway.

**Relax.**

He’s about to put his phone away—really put his phone away, for the night, but the response is immediate so he reads it first.

_I will when you do_

He laughs again.

**Well played.**

He’ll check in again later, once the winner’s been announced. Blake’ll probably have plenty to say then. In the meantime, he should probably focus. He’s still got a job to do—Blake can wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah...i added another chapter. apologies if you're really excited for the end, but this one kind of just went further than the outline had planned for it, and i had to bump some stuff. the end is still near--thanks for bearing with me and i hope everyone's enjoying!


	12. Chapter 12

It’s been so easy lately that Adam almost forgot that he was going to be seeing Blake in person soon. And it’s weird—he’s actually a little bit nervous. Which is stupid. But he’s long since resolved himself to the fact that his anxiety just makes him kind of stupid, so he and the butterflies in his stomach go to the pre-shooting meeting together. Early. Which is uncharacteristic for him, but maybe not for the butterflies.

He doesn’t beat everyone—Carson’s already there, along with a handful of network people. But he’s the first coach. He beat Blake. Which is absolutely something he’s going to be able to hold over his head. If that’s what they do still. Which it _is_ , he tells himself. They’ve talked enough that he knows their real dynamic now.

Except that sometimes things are different in person.  _Usually,_ things are different in person. So he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and Adam _hates_ not knowing what he’s doing. And he feels like everyone in the room can tell how nervous he is, as if it’s manifesting physically despite the considerable effort he’s putting into _not_ shaking his right leg. People are arriving now, trickling in slowly, and Adam gratefully redirects his energy into greeting people, making small talk. He’s in a conversation when Blake arrives, but meets his eyes anyway. Blake smiles widely—smiles, not smirks—and Adam can’t help but smile back. The butterflies slow their flight a little bit. It’s just _Blake._

There’s no time to talk before the meeting officially starts. Blake sinks down into the seat next to Adam and gives him a punch on the arm, and that’s as much of a greeting as they get. Adam’s okay with that—tries his best to pay attention to what’s going on, despite generally hating these meetings. Blake helps, making little faces and snide comments anytime anyone says something annoying. Adam tries not to actually laugh out loud—it’s hard to believe he actually went years hating Blake too much to find him funny. Carson keeps shooting sidelong glances at them, and Adam can tell he’s curious. He’s probably not going to ask any questions though—the situation with Adam and Blake is never something he outwardly acknowledged. They always tried to keep it below the radar, keep up appearances on set as well as on camera so no errant contestants decided to shock the tabloids with tales of fake friendship. Carson knew, Adam knows Carson knew. But he never mentioned it, and that helped.

So between monitoring Carson’s looks and trying to be respectful despite everything Blake is saying, the meeting actually goes by pretty fast. And then the butterflies come back, because he’s not sure what’s next—does he stick around and chat with Blake? Do they go out for coffee? Is he even free? But he’s conveniently forgotten what’s coming next, because as everyone gets up to leave, Mark utters the same ominous words that used to drive Adam so insane.

“Adam, Blake, stay a minute?”

Adam makes eye contact with Blake and he can’t help it—he cracks up. This is fucking surreal. What are they supposed to say when they get their stern talking-to about how important it is to look like friends? Blake is laughing too, a real laugh, a booming laugh that makes the conference room feel smaller than it is.

Everyone is looking at them like they’re crazy, but when they calm down, Mark chooses to ignore what just happened.

“So, about this season—” he starts.

“We know the drill,” Blake says, cutting him off. “Playful, friendly, physical.”

Adam’s stomach sinks a little at that last one, but he ignores it, keeps smiling.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Blake continues.

“We’re fine,” Adam tacks on, just to confirm that Blake isn’t stampeding over him, that they’re together on this.

Mark looks skeptical. “Are you sure?” he asks. “Because it’s been a while—”

“We’re good,” Adam says. “Seriously.”

Mark looks around the room at serious network faces, but then shrugs. “Okay,” he says. “If you say so.

“Great,” Blake says. “Anything else?”

“No.” Mark still seems a little taken aback, but he lets them go all the same. Adam and Blake actually walk out together.

 “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Mark look that surprised,” Adam says, once the door is closed and they’re walking down the hall after saying goodbye to their respective managers.

“And what about Carson?” Blake says.

Adam shakes his head. “That started on the finale last season,” he tells Blake.

“Things are gonna be different, huh?” Blake asks.

“For us. If we were any good at acting, nothing should change for anyone else.”

Blake snorts. “Well, we’ll see. I saw you in that movie.”

“Hey!”

Blake checks his phone. “I gotta go,” he says. “See you on set.”

“See ya,” Adam says. He shouldn’t be disappointed by Blake taking off so early. He’s probably not. Just the residual effect of all those butterflies.

 

Blinds have never been more fun. They were always fun, but they were always fun despite having to play it up with Blake. Now when Adam laughs at Blake, it’s _genuine_ , and he’s physically exhausted at the end of a day from the exertion of all the laughter. Now coming up with the sassy way to dissuade an artist from Blake’s team and onto his own is fun and not just rote. It’s day three and there’s been plenty of banter, fun back-and-forth, and—what Adam missed last season—a real fight for artists, with energy and bite. And without the actual aggression, even that’s better.

So it’s been day three and the rivalry and fun have only been ramping up when Adam and Blake are the only two to turn their chairs for a seventeen-year-old girl with what Adam insists is the voice of an angel.

“Seriously! When I turned around I was expecting you to be like, holding a harp and wearing a halo!” he insists.

“You’re dumb,” Blake calls down the row of seats.

“Amy,” Adam says. “Ignore him. He’s just trying to get my attention right now. He’ll have his turn.”

Amy laughs a little when Blake faux-pouts.

“Do you have any training?” Adam asks.

“I’ve been taking voice lessons, but only for a couple months,” she says. Adam smiles. For all the talk about raw talent and how great it is, he finds it’s always easier to work with an artist when they have some sense of what to expect from the process.

“For a couple of months of voice lessons, your voice is just…out of this world,” he says. “I would hate to have Blake ruin that by making you sing country.”

“Hey!”

“He’s done it before,” Adam continues. “He makes big promises to a pop artist like yourself, then one week he gives them a country song to ‘experiment’ with, and suddenly that’s it, it’s over, they’re a country singer.”

“Nothin’ wrong with bein’ a country singer,” Blake says.

“Will you shut up?” Adam asks him, shooting him an exasperated smile. “I’m talking to Amy!” He turns back to face Amy, a wider smile than he would like to admit on his face. “There’s nothing wrong with being a country singer, Amy, but the whole world needs to hear your voice.”

“Including country music fans,” Blake says.

“Who listen to the radio. Anyway—”

“If you’re on the country station.”

“Shhhhhhh!” Adam stands up and crosses the room to clap a hand over Blake’s mouth. “Amy, he is licking my hand right now”—he is, and it’s gross—“and I don’t care. That’s how much I want you on my team! I want you to be a household name internationally, and I think that you and I can put in the work to get you there. You’ve got this very pure tone that you don’t hear that much anymore. It’s missing from today’s pop world. And I want us to bring it back.”

He pulls his hand away from Blake’s mouth. It’s wet, and he wipes it on Blake’s shirt.

“Hey!” Blake says.

“Hey yourself. Don’t lick my hand.” He retreats back to his seat.

“Amy, Adam doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And he should, considering the number of times I’ve beaten him, including with pop singers.”

“One pop singer!” Adam snaps. “And she’s still doing country!”

“Because she’s a diverse artist. Which is what you would be if you joined my team, Amy. I _will_ have you try new things, like Adam said, because I think that’s the best way to get to know you as an artist and for you to get to know yourself as an artist. Especially because you’re so young, I think that’s an important step of the process. If you join my team, we’ll find together what kind of singer you are, and then I’ll help you become the best version of that singer you can be.”

It’s a good argument. He probably just won her over. Adam shoots her a pleading glance, but without high hopes. When she picks Blake, he smiles and it’s more genuine than it’s ever been before. It’s _fun_ now, going up against Blake. When Blake beats him well, it’s not a personal affront anymore—just a disappointment that he didn’t get the artist in question on his team. Once Amy’s left the stage and they’ve reset their chairs and are waiting, it’s time to play though.

“Does anyone have any hand sanitizer?” Adam asks the room at large. The audience laughs.

“You’re such a baby,” Blake says, laughing.

“My hand is all sticky from your slobber,” Adam says. “I’d like to clean it.”

Obviously, nobody comes running over with hand sanitizer, so Adam stands again and approaches Blake, hand out in front of him. Blake is smiling, albeit apprehensively as Adam stands right in front of him and touches his palm to Blake’s face.

“Oh, yeah,” Blake says, leaning in and wiping his face against Adam’s hand like a dog leans in to be pet.

“You’re so gross!” Adam says, laughing and trying to pull his hand away, but Blake reaches up and grabs it, then uses his other arm to pull Adam in.

“Let go of me!” Adam cries through his laughter. “Stop!”

Blake pulls Adam onto his lap, and Adam struggles—sort of—as Blake wraps his arms around him. And suddenly Adam is surrounded by Blake, by warm Blake, and he feels a jerk in his stomach and suddenly has to suppress the urge to turn around and stick his tongue down Blake’s throat. _What the hell._

Blake says something cute, but Adam can barely hear it over the rushing in his ears. He resumes his struggling, this time with more intent, and pulls himself off of Blake’s lap. He stands, facing Blake for a moment, and Blake looks a little surprised. Adam forces a smile and Blake slowly returns it.

“You’re going down, Shelton,” Adam says, trying to regain a sense of equilibrium. “Next one is mine.”

Blake laughs. “Nice try, buddy,” he says. “You’re gettin’ better at this.”

Adam flips him off, then retreats back to his own chair and tries to gather himself. It’s just muscle memory, he tells himself. Or pheromone bullshit. His body is confused—last time he was around Blake, was that close to Blake, they were sleeping together, after all. It’s not like he actually _wants_ that anymore. It’s just the holdover physical reactions, and he can work through those. He can stop thinking about how warm Blake is, how big his hands are, how he smells. He can, and he will. Because there’s friends now, and that’s not what friends think about. He’ll get over it, no big deal.

He’s so busy reminding himself of that he barely hears the next artist.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they keep shooting, everything falls into place. It’s as easy now as they’ve always said it is—Blake and Adam. The more time Adam spends with Blake, the more he enjoys spending time with him.  
> Except.  
> Except that Adam’s body hasn’t quite adjusted the way he thought it would.

As they keep shooting, everything falls into place. It’s as easy now as they’ve always said it is—Blake and Adam. They kind of just…get each other. Which is probably to be expected from years of working together but never was the case before (or at least not voluntarily). And they haven’t gotten sick of each other. Adam was worried about that leading up to this season—going from avoiding each other to nothing at all to seeing each other every day. But it’s been fine. It’s been good. They’ve even grabbed dinner or drinks a couple times. Honestly, the more time Adam spends with Blake, the more he enjoys spending time with him.

Except.

Except that Adam’s body hasn’t quite adjusted the way he thought it would. He’s still a little…edgy might be a good word for it. He can’t stop thinking about…well, this was a whole lot easier before he had such vivid sense memories of what Blake’s like in bed. Before Blake so much ascracking his knuckles drew Adam’s attention so closely to his stupid long fingers, reminded Adam of exactly how those fingers felt inside him. So it’s pheromones. But pheromones are supposed to wear off, right?

And he never realized that Blake was really quite as physical as he was for show purposes, but he is. Adam doesn’t quite understand how someone so big and awkward can be so _tactile_ , but he is. It feels like there’s barely a second they’re not together that Blake’s not touching him somehow. And it’s all perfectly casual to Blake. Just how he is. He probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. But Adam certainly does.

Mostly, he tries his hardest to focus on other things. Because being friends with Blake is _nice_. He doesn’t want his weird flashbacks to get in the way of that.

 

“Could you at least not _try_ to make a mess?” Adam asks.

Blake glances between him and the blob of guacamole he’s just dropped on a throw pillow, and slowly a smirk spreads across his face.

“Whatever the fuck you’re thinking, don’t—”

But he’s too late. Blake has thrown both chip and guac at Adam’s face, and in all Adam’s luck, it’s landed guac-side-down, stuck to his face.

“You’re a child, you know that?” he asks, pulling the chip off and grabbing a napkin to wipe his face.

“I’m sorry for the tiny spill,” Blake says. “You freak.”

“Why thank you, Blake,” Adam says, in his most aggressively faux-enthusiastic voice. “For that heartfelt apology.”

Blake just laughs.

Adam likes making Blake laugh.

Blake takes a sip of his beer and holds it in his hand, turning it instead of putting it back down on the coffee table. They’re at Adam’s place. There’s a football game on in the background but they haven’t really been watching, just talking and drinking and eating. It’s comfortable. It’s nice. There aren’t really that many people Adam feels good just _hanging out_ with, good old-fashioned hanging out. He’s lucky that he has the friends he does. And he’s lucky he gets to add Blake to that list.

And it’s funny because they’ve done this. This is hardly Blake’s first time on this couch with TV on for nothing but noise. They’ve even had conversations. It’s weird how nothing’s changed but everything’s changed. The weight of their words is different, the way the jokes fall. It’s easier. It’s safer.

“Sometimes you remind me of Richie,” Blake says softly, still looking down at the beer bottle in his hands.

There’s a jolt in Adam’s gut. “Your brother?” he asks. Blake doesn’t talk about this. At least, not with him, never before. For all Adam knows, he talks about Richie all the time, but this still feels like a big step.

“He was always on me about messing up his stuff.”

Adam doesn’t know what to say. Blake is speaking quietly, and he’s hunched in on himself a little. It’s not that noticeable, but Adam can’t help but see. Blake is taking up less space than usual.

“One time I spilled Pepsi on this stack of albums he had on his nightstand.” Blake smiles to himself and laughs sadly. “Man, he was so pissed.”

Adam swallows hard. It’s in the little details—the way Blake says Pepsi instead of soda, the way he remembers exactly where the records were. It’s the kind of crystallized memory that only comes from loss. He wishes he had something to offer here, but he doesn’t have any comparable stories—a story of childhood with Michael and the way brothers can be feels remarkably out of place.

He reaches a hand out and touches Blake’s shoulder, steadily ignoring the electricity that shoots up his arm. Blake relaxes into the touch immediately, as if that’s all it takes. And suddenly, Adam wants to cry. Because Blake has been through so much and needs so little and gives so much.

And Blake is fine, is the thing. He puts his beer back down on the table and looks at Adam. “At least it was just drop on a pillow is all I’m sayin’.”

Adam laughs weakly as if that short conversation didn’t rock him to his core. As if he doesn’t want to wrap himself in Blake right now and just feel _good_ and _safe_ , and have Blake feel the same, because he deserves it. And he doesn’t know where this is coming from, this sudden instinct to take care of Blake. And he doesn’t like it, and he doesn’t want it. He’s Blake’s _friend._ Just his friend. And that’s great.

“Pass me another chip,” Blake says. “I promise I won’t ruin the couch.”

It’s great.

 

Except it’s not great. If Adam thought pretending to be Blake’s friend when they hated each other was bad, it has fucking nothing on pretending to be Blake’s friend when he just wants to…wants to…he doesn’t know what the fuck it is he wants, but he knows it’s not the friendship they have. And play up for the cameras. He’s grateful when Blinds are over, when he has a brief respite from constant on-screen Blake interactions and just gets to coach his team. He still sees Blake—days when they’re both on set, Blake usually comes and drags him to craft services around lunchtime so they can eat and talk. And it’s _nice_ , Adam knows it’s nice, and he enjoys the conversations, and he enjoys Blake. It’s just wearing on him; the effort it takes to act natural. Because before, when he was pretending, Blake was too. Ironically enough, Blake had been the only person he didn’t have to put on a show for. But now…now Blake is being sincere, totally genuine, and it’s the biggest acting challenge Adam has ever faced, making him believe that Adam is too. He’s not sure if Blake is believing it or not.

The strain of it all has got Adam feeling terrible, and it’s the first day shooting Battle Rounds when the migraine finally hits him. He feels like fucking garbage, no idea how to go about being a coach. His head feels like it’s full of cotton and he can barely move without it aching. But he’s here, this is his job, there’s a screaming audience and a whole bunch of artists waiting to compete. So he takes four Advil and does his best.

He knows he’s off, and he knows his efforts at hiding it are only getting him so far. Carson looks mildly concerned and Blake looks downright stricken with worry when they break midday and Adam heads straight to his trailer, alone. But fortunately, they leave him alone. He gets a nap in and while his head still feels like cotton when he settles back into his coach’s chair for the afternoon session, it’s slightly less cotton. The screams and cheers of the audience certainly don’t help, but he’s able to pay attention and make somewhat coherent comments, which is more than he can say for the morning. He feels bad for the poor suckers who are going to have to cut it together around his idiocy. But not quite as bad as he feels for himself.

It’s hard, it’s torture, and it’s not made any better by the looks of concern Blake keeps shooting down the row at him, nor by Blake approaching him when they get a few minutes’ break and asking what’s wrong.

“I’ve got a migraine,” Adam says.

Blake reaches a heavy hand out and claps it onto Adam’s shoulder, and Adam shivers—actually fucking shivers—when he starts to gently knead the muscle there at the meeting of neck and shoulder.

“Anything I can do?” Blake asks.

“Knock me out cold,” Adam says, and he’s not really joking. He just wants to be alone, away from Blake, away from the audience watching him and Blake. As if the pain itself weren’t bad enough, now he has to do this?

Blake smiles at him and squeezes one more time, then goes back to his seat without saying anything else. Thank God.

He goes back to his trailer when they’re done—he wants to go home, but he doesn’t think he can handle it right now. He just wants to sleep.

He’s settled on the couch and actually drifting off when the loudest noise in the world sounds from the door. He groans in response, and when he hears the door opening and Blake’s voice, he realizes it was a knock.

“I brought you some water,” Blake says.

“Go away.” Adam can’t handle Blake being thoughtful right now.

But Blake doesn’t listen, instead crossing over to the couch and settling himself under Adam’s outstretched legs.

“Here,” he says, handing Adam the bottle of Voss he brought.

“Thanks,” Adam says, grudgingly accepting it and taking a clumsy sip.

Blake says nothing, just absently rubs his hand back and forth over Adam’s leg, like he’s petting a dog.

“What are you—”

“Shhh. Go to sleep, you look like hell.”

Adam listens, letting the rhythmic sensation of Blake’s hand lull him into a soft sleep.

He knows not a lot of time has passed when he wakes up. But he does feel better. The cotton’s not all out, but the nausea’s past and he feels like he could eat something. Should eat something.

Blake’s still there.

“Hey,” Adam says, sitting up and readjusting himself so they’re sitting next to each other and he’s not draped over Blake embarrassingly anymore.

“Feel better?” Blake asks.

“Yeah, some,” Adam says. “Why’d you stay?”

“I was worried,” Blake says, throwing an arm around him. Adam leans in. He’s so _warm_. It’s nice.

He leans his head on Blake’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he says.

“You get migraines a lot?” Blake asks.

“Sometimes,” Adam says. “When I’m stressed.”

“Stressed?”

He immediately wishes he hadn’t said anything. “Or whatever,” he tacks on lamely. What’s he supposed to tell Blake. _Yeah, I’m stressed because I can’t stop thinking about fucking you even though we’re friends now and it drove me to literal physical illness_. Totally normal. Not at all weird or creepy.

“What’s goin’ on, buddy?” Blake asks, and he sounds so genuine, like he really wants to _know_.

Adam hesitates. He can’t think of a good lie right now.

“You know you can talk to me,” Blake says, squeezing Adam tightly to him.

Adam doesn’t know if it’s the heat or the contact—which of course, makes his stomach flip—or the simple admission of caring—which makes his heart swell up—but suddenly, he can’t help himself, his emotions have overtaken him, and he’s turned his head and leaned up and his lips are on Blake’s and he’s kissing him, really kissing him like he hasn’t done since that last night after last season's Top Twelve.

And Blake is kind of kissing him back. Isn’t kissing him back. Is maybe kissing him back? But it doesn’t matter, because Adam shouldn’t be doing this. He’s sick and confused and clearly going through something. He shouldn’t be doing this. He pulls away.

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, I…sorry.”

“What—” Blake is looking at him so intently, and Adam can’t let him ask the question, so he cuts him off.

“I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I know that’s not where we are anymore. I’m just sick, and it’s got me all…I’m sorry.”

And he knows he shouldn’t have apologized quite that much, and Blake has this look on his face like he might even be trying to hide a smirk, and _God,_ Adam can’t believe he did that.

Blake opens his mouth, and no, there’s definitely no smirk there, this can’t be good at all. “It’s not where we are,” he says. “But—”

“No, I know” Adam says, cutting him off again before Blake can apologize for leading him on. That’s the last thing he needs to hear. Again. “This was all me, I feel so stupid. Listen, can we just forget it ever happened?”

Blake looks at him, a searching look, and Adam hopes he looks contrite enough. He doesn’t want to lose Blake’s friendship over this one stupid slip. He’ll never do it again.

Blake shrugs a little, his eyes locked on Adam’s. “If that’s what you want,” he says.

“Of course it is!” Adam says, and his tone is bordering on desperate now. But the other option is going back to the way things were before, when they barely spoke except on camera. Of course this is what he wants. “We’re good, right?”

Blake smiles at him, and there’s something in that smile, something that makes Adam feel like he’s not doing enough to convince him that it can be _fine_ , it can be _normal_.

“Sure,” he says. “We’re good.”

“Good,” Adam says. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. “Do you wanna go get some dinner or something?” he asks, and he can’t help it; he still sounds desperate. “I was nauseous all day.”

“Sure,” Blake says, standing and reaching a hand out to help Adam up as well. When Adam takes it, he feels the familiar jolt go through his body. Blake withdraws the hand quickly after Adam’s standing. It’s like he knows what Adam’s thinking.

“Let’s go,” Adam says, and leads the way out of his trailer and—hopefully—away from everything that just went wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end is nigh, y'all, and I want to thank you for sticking with me this far. hopefully the last chapter should be up within the week but it is also a crazy time for me right now, so bear with me a little bit. in the meantime, i just wanted to let you guys know before i'm done and i get all sappy that your comments have meant so much to me and absolutely kept me going on this story at my darkest times of writer's block. so even though i don't usually respond, just know how grateful i am to everyone who sent an encouraging word my way throughout the labor of love that has been this story.
> 
> also it's somewhat possible (not likely, but possible) that i might end up with two more chapters instead of one, and if so, i apologize in advance for making you think the end is nigh


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake drives Adam's car--he insists on it, even though Adam says he's fine. Truthfully, Adam doesn't mind. He's not really feeling up to driving, feels a lot more like sitting and stewing in the front seat while he stares out the window. So Blake drives. It's strange, Blake driving his car. He looks so out of place and yet so...well. He's Blake. He can be comfortable anywhere. Adam used to hate that about him, but watching Blake squeezed behind the wheel looking entirely at ease stirs something in his stomach now.
> 
> Then again, what doesn't?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry for the lateness! I mentioned on tumblr, but I am at the end of a summer research program right now, so I was getting a presentation together and did not have a whole lot of time. But here's the last chapter, I hope y'all enjoy!

Blake drives Adam's car--he insists on it, even though Adam says he's fine. Truthfully, Adam doesn't mind. He's not really feeling up to driving, feels a lot more like sitting and stewing in the front seat while he stares out the window. So Blake drives. It's strange, Blake driving his car. He looks so out of place and yet so...well. He's Blake. He can be comfortable anywhere. Adam used to hate that about him, but watching Blake squeezed behind the wheel looking entirely at ease stirs something in his stomach now.

Then again, what doesn't?

Adam doesn’t pay attention to where they’re going, instead leaning against the window and trying to dull both the aching of his head and the deep sense of shame washing over him. He still can’t believe he did that. He can’t believe he came this close to ruining things. Maybe did ruin things. When the car stops, Adam looks up. They’re at a steakhouse. Of course they are. He doesn’t have it in him to care.

Blake leads him inside, tentatively, like he’s made of glass or something.

“I’m fine, you know,” Adam says. “My head only hurts a little.”

Blake shrugs and smiles sheepishly and Adam rolls his eyes.

They sit, and Adam is just now realizing that he really did not think it through when he decided dinner was the best choice. Here he is, sitting across from Blake in low lighting, with his head still feeling pretty fuzzy. And this is supposed to be a solution to the whole wanting-to-kiss-his-friend problem. It’s not working.

“So how’s the new album going?” he asks, just for something to ask. Blake hasn’t really talked about his music too much since he got back. And it’s not like Adam knows if that’s normal—maybe Blake is never particularly talkative about what he’s working on. But that doesn’t seem likely. Blake likes to talk. Blake likes to talk music. He gets excited about music. And Adam likes to see that.

Blake shrugs, looking over the menu. “Fine,” he says. He doesn’t seem too excited now.

“You doing anything exciting?” Adam keeps pushing.

“Some stuff,” Blake says.

Adam needs more to work with than this. “Any details?” he asks.

“Lauren and I are doing a duet,” Blake says.

“Duski?” Adam asks.

“Yeah,” Blake says. He’s so much less chatty than usual, and it’s starting to grate, but at least this is something Adam can latch onto. He’s about to ask more about it when Blake’s foot presses down on his underneath the table.  

“Sorry,” Adam says, pulling his foot away and looking down at the menu resolutely.

Blake doesn’t say anything, so Adam shoots a glance back up at him. He’s half-smiling and shaking his head, and his foot hasn’t moved from Adam’s side of the table, though he does shift it. Adam swallows hard and tries to focus on what they were talking about.

“So, duet with Lauren,” he says, regaining his bearings. “Did she write it?”

Blake nods, meeting Adam’s eyes and giving him a look that feels deeper, like Blake is looking right through him.

Adam feels suddenly warm under his gaze and looks away again.

“Do we know what we want yet?”

The waiter has materialized, and Adam has never been more grateful. They order, the waiter walks away, and Adam smiles at Blake warily.

“Do you ever think that Carson’s TV voice is a lot like waiter-voice?” he asks. If Blake’s not going to carry his weight in this conversation, Adam will double down. Sure, his head still hurts but he is going to prove to Blake that they’re fine, that nothing has to change between them just because of one stupid lapse in Adam’s control.

“Waiter-voice?” Blake asks.

“You know, the voice that waiters always have,” he says. “Like, all upbeat and excited about your steak order or whatever.”

Blake nods. “Yeah. I guess sometimes it does come off that way.”

“Come on,” Adam says. “After every performance, introducing every battle. You know the voice.”

“I know the voice,” Blake says. “You and your dumb impressions won’t let me forget it.”

“You love my impressions,” Adam says.

Blake shrugs.

“Remember last year during Knockouts when Miley was sick and Carson was trying to like, cover for her? With all the really specific questions?”

Blake suddenly smiles, all dimples and eyebrows raised. “Yeah, I remember,” he says. “That was the day you gave me that hickey and makeup kept coming to touch it up.”

Adam’s stomach drops out like he’s on a rollercoaster. What the fuck is Blake doing?

“Yeah,” he says, inhaling deeply. “Sure. Maybe. I don’t remember.”

Of course he remembers.

“But anyway,” he says, struggling to get back to his point. “Just the way that waiter was asking about your steak made me think about Carson asking Miley those ridiculous questions. Like ‘Coach Miley, what did you think of Marissa Ann’s _tone_ in that performance?’ and Miley all stuffed up trying to answer.”

Adam laughs to himself. Blake doesn’t join in, but meets his eyes with that same weirdly piercing look. Adam wants to slap him for ruining this—this is not his fault anymore. This is on Blake. Adam is acting totally normal, regardless of that stupid kiss. Blake’s the one making it weird.

Blake’s foot presses back down on his. Adam grabs a roll. He doesn’t usually eat bread, but what the hell, it’s something to fucking do. He tries to move his foot, but Blake’s follows it. Adam steadily ignores the pressure on his foot along with Blake’s eyes. It’s a small mercy when their food gets there, but Blake doesn’t move his foot.

And it’s not like…well, Adam’s not stupid. He understands what these signals mean. But he doesn’t think he has it in him to go back to the way things were with Blake, to add sex back into the mix. It was confusing enough for him when they hated each other. Now that they’re friends? Adam can’t imagine being able to disentangle those threads. Hell, he can’t even figure out what he feels for Blake _now_ , when they’re _not_ having sex. He wishes, yet again, he hadn’t kissed Blake in his trailer, hadn’t put this idea back in his head.

 

The rest of dinner is tense, and the food only does so much to make Adam feel better. Blake barely says a word all through the meal, and between trying to make conversation and avoid those lingering looks, Adam is fucking exhausted by the end. Ready to go home.

As they walk back out into the parking lot, Blake puts a hand on the small of Adam’s back, maybe for stability, maybe for…whatever it’s for, it sends another jolt through all of Adam, and suddenly he’s pissed. He’s pissed at Blake for making this so weird. He’s pissed at the situation they’ve somehow ended up in. Most of all, he’s pissed at himself for not being able to control his own emotions. He was supposed to be better at this by now. They were supposed to be _friends_. He fucked it up, not just with the kiss, but with everything that made him do it in the first place. It wasn’t just pheromones. It was something else. Something he doesn’t want to acknowledge or name or deal with, because it’s not fucking _fair_.

It’s not fair that they finally get to this point and all Adam wants is _more_. When there’s no way Blake could want the same, could want anything more than whatever tenuous friendship they’ve formed, whatever Adam’s managed to lie his way into.

And the thing is, Adam will take it. He’ll take a friendship if that’s what he gets. But it’s not what he wants. He doesn’t want to be friends, he doesn’t want to be friends with benefits. He wants…he just _wants_. Something. Everything. Blake.

Adam stomps to the passenger seat of the car, not even putting up another fight. Blake can fucking drive. He just wants to sit there and seethe, in the inevitable silence between them, in the car that’s too small for Blake and too big for whatever dignity Adam might have left.

“What’s wrong with you?” Blake asks as he approaches the car more slowly.

And Adam wants to scream, because only Blake could get away with acting that, could be so imperceptive as to not notice that Adam is just about ready to kill him, is just about ready to jump him, is just about ready to…fucking explode or something, Adam doesn’t even know.

He just shakes his head wordlessly. Let Blake wonder.

But Blake doesn’t go so easy. Instead of unlocking the car and getting in like a normal fucking person, he walks around to Adam’s side.

“Adam…” he says, standing awkwardly in front of where Adam is leaning against the door and raking  hand through his hair. “I want to…”

“What?” Adam snaps. “Not talk to me some more? ‘Cause I get the message. How many more times do I have to say I’m sorry? I didn’t mean anything by it, Blake, it was just—I don’t know, I was sick, and—”

“You didn’t mean anything by it?” Blake asks, quietly.

“I—” Adam falters, then lets his gaze drop to the ground, willing it to swallow him up now.

“Listen, Adam,” Blake says, taking a step closer. “I don’t want to...I don’t…” He takes a deep breath. “But I’m gonna feel really stupid if I don’t at least try this.”

And his hand is under Adam’s chin, tilting it up, and his lips are on Adam’s, coming down firmly, and it’s the kind of kiss that knocks the breath out of you, not because it’s urgent, but because it’s _solid_. It feels fucking real. And Adam wants it, wants all of it, wants to do nothing but kiss Blake like this until the end of time. But it’s Blake, and Blake doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into, kissing Adam like this, so he pulls away, leans further back against the car.

And there’s a moment, a moment when Blake’s face is still inches away from his, and he can see nothing but Blake’s blue blue eyes, and the million question in them.

“Did I…” Blake trails off, withdrawing from Adam and shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Blake,” Adam says. “Come on. We can’t do this again.”

And Blake looks down at the ground, looks anywhere but at Adam, and his voice sounds small when he asks “Again?”

“Look,” Adam says. “It got confusing enough the first time, and we hated each other then. Or…” He feels like he’s losing his thread. “Maybe we didn’t really hate each other, but we didn’t…and even then, it was so complicated and weird. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to…now that we…” He doesn’t know if he’s communicating at all. When Blake finally looks back up at him, a smirk on his face that reminds Adam of the old days, he thinks probably he hasn’t gotten his message through.

“You think I wanna go back to—”

“We’re in a good place now,” Adam presses on. “Let’s not complicate things.”

“Will you just shut up?” Blake asks, and his smirk is a full-blown grin now. Adam doesn’t know what the fuck he’s missing.

“Excuse me?”

“Shut up,” Blake says. “You’re so _dumb_.”

Adam is affronted by that, but decides not to protest—they’re standing in the parking lot of an LA steakhouse having what will almost definitely end up being the most uncomfortable conversation of Adam’s life. The sooner it ends, the better. It’s best to take Blake’s advice (for once) and shut up.

“What if it didn’t have to get more complicated?” Blake asks. “What if it could get less complicated?”

“How?” Adam asks, skeptical.

Blake smiles again, shakes his head. “I knew you were stupid,” he says. “But not _this_ stupid.”

And suddenly, he’s leaning in again, hands against the car behind Adam. And Adam doesn’t stop Blake from kissing him again, doesn’t stop him from pressing him against the car with his body, or from grabbing at his hip. But he doesn’t get it, doesn’t know what Blake is saying, what Blake thinks he’s doing or how it could possibly be uncomplicated. And then Blake makes a noise. It’s small—a little hum in the back of his throat, so small Adam barely catches it, just a buzz he half-feels in his teeth. Oh. _Oh_.

And it’s all he can take to stop from climbing Blake like a fucking tree, to keep himself here, now, as he leans into Blake and kisses him back, kisses him like he’s never kissed anyone. He forgets that they’re in a parking lot, that they’re in the middle of the city, that any stray paparazzo could take as many pictures as they fucking wanted right now and there would be nothing either of them could do about it. He doesn’t fucking care. It doesn’t matter. Blake is kissing him like he means it, and it _isn’t_ complicated. It’s simple. It’s the simplest thing in the fucking world. It’s him and Blake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for sticking with this fic for so long!!! I was really unsure as to how this concept would go over in the fandom, and to see it received so warmly has made me so happy. Thanks to everyone who commented along the way, I know I'm bad at responding but I want you to know that every comment meant the world to me, and those of you who commented on every chapter kept me going in the writing process. 
> 
> I may or may not end up coming out with a oneshot prequel, but it'll be after a little break.
> 
> Thank you so much to all, and I'll see you for the next fic.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Adam wakes up, he’s alone in bed and he smells coffee. It’s hard for him to keep the grin off his face as he gets up and pulls a pair of boxers on. Blake’s still here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSYCH
> 
> okay so i actually have free time again, and i realized i wasn't really happy with where i left this fic--it didn't feel like the real end to their story. so i wrote this little epilogue to give the boys a fighting chance in this cruel cruel world. this is the actual ending, i swear. see you all next time

When Adam wakes up, he’s alone in bed and he smells coffee. It’s hard for him to keep the grin off his face as he gets up and pulls a pair of boxers on. Blake’s still here.

And Blake’s cooking, he sees as he walks into the kitchen. Omelets. Adam gets to wake up to Blake making omelets. Probably not just today. The thought sends a warm feeling pooling in his stomach. 

“Hi,” he says, his smile cracking even wider across his lips as Blake turns away from the stove.

“Hi,” Blake says back, looking up and smiling in that way where his eyes crinkle. Adam kind of feels like he’s glowing. He feels kind of stupid. But that’s how he’s supposed to feel.

He sinks down onto a stool by the counter and watches Blake cook. It’s kind of shameless, the way he watches, but that’s his right now. Besides, there’s something about the way Blake does it, the way Blake does everything really, the tendons in his forearms rolling and stretching as he moves the pan around, the sureness with which he moves around Adam’s kitchen as if he’s totally at ease there. Something in Adam’s gut aches at that, but in a comfortable way.  

“You’re starin’ at me,” Blake says, turning around.

“Yeah,” Adam says flatly, smirking a little.

“Nothin’ else to say?” Blake hands Adam a plate full of food.

“I like looking at you,” Adam says, letting his smirk grow.

“Do you now?”

Adam grabs at Blake’s t-shirt and pulls him in for a kiss over the counter. It’s small, short and sweet. But it feels so full, so much more than it’s ever felt before. Adam could do this for a very long time.

“So do you want to talk?” Blake asks.

“About?”

“Last night,” Blake says.

“You mean when you kissed me in the parking lot of a steakhouse?” Adam asks, grinning a little more than he means to.

“I mean how I’m pretty much in love with you,” Blake says quietly.

Adam’s heart drops into his stomach. He pokes at his omelet with his fork without saying anything. He can’t believe he heard Blake say that—feels frozen in his spot, unable to process what’s happening. Blake is…Blake. Adam feels like a giant cliché for thinking it, but he never thought Blake would feel like that. Say that. No matter how he felt about Blake, about tall masculine country Blake, he never even entertained the idea that Blake could feel the same. He was so busy trying to pretend he didn’t have these feelings for Blake that he didn’t even think to put a name to them. But…

Blake is looking at him, half sheepish, half expectant.

“Blake…” Adam says. He doesn’t know how to even go about saying the words. He doesn’t know where to start. But Blake’s blue eyes are widening, with fear or hurt or something, and he needs to make it right, and it’s not like there’s any question in his mind.

“I love you too, Blake,” he says.

Blake puts his plate down next to Adam’s and crosses over to his side of the counter, sinking down onto the stool next to him.

“Really?” he asks.

Adam leans in and kisses him, again, deeper than before. It still feels like he’s sinking into it, though, like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be, kissing Blake like this, like he means it. Like they’re in love. Because they _are_.

“So what’s next?” Adam asks, pulling away.

“We eat our omelets,” Blake says, smiling at Adam snarkily.

Adam rolls his eyes. “And then…?”

“I had some thoughts,” Blake says softly, his hand landing on Adam’s thigh.

Adam rolls his eyes again, but does nothing to stop the slow creep of Blake’s hand upwards. “But seriously, folks,” he says.

“What do you want, Adam?” Blake asks, and his voice has that vulnerable thing again.

Adam shrugs. “You?” he tries.

Blake smiles. “You’ve got me.”

“And?” Adam doesn’t know exactly what it is he’s asking. He just knows that it doesn’t always matter how simple it feels, how simple it is between them, just them. Because it’s not just them. They’re who they are. They do what they do. There are people who want to know, who want to pry, who won’t be happy with this turn of events. And sometimes they’re beholden to these people. And Blake especially has a lot to lose. And Adam…Adam doesn’t want to lose this now. Not when he’s just gotten it. But he doesn’t want to make everything that much more complicated. Maybe it’s better to end it now. Maybe—

“Hey.” Blake says, putting a hand on Adam’s hand, stopping the whirlwind of thoughts in their tracks. “We’ll figure it out.” He rubs his thumb up and down on Adam’s hand, soft soothing patterns. And Adam believes him. They’ll figure it out. They’ll figure it all out. Together.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this came from me watching some interviews one night while too high and thinking about just how much of celebrities' lives as we see them are artificial and put-on for the public. I don't know how much that's going to end up being explored as the fic goes on, but it's something I find really interesting.
> 
> I've never posted a WIP before, and I'm kinda nervous about it. It will absolutely be finished--I've got some chapters banked, and I've been writing it pretty fast, I just wanted to give you all a heads-up that encouragement will definitely be appreciated (if not responded to because I'm bad at that).
> 
> Title from Harder to Breathe, which I did not realize would fit as well as it does.
> 
> On tumblr @shewillbevined.


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